


Passion Power: Marvel/Avengers x Reader

by PixiePaint



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heartbreak, LGBT, Love, M/M, Multi, One-Shots, Polyamory, Requests, break-ups, prompts, realistic romance, relationships, some strong language, usually gen-neutral reader, various - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-03 08:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13337673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixiePaint/pseuds/PixiePaint
Summary: Various one-shots of Marvel (mostly Avengers) x Reader-- ranging from fluff to angst.Requests open!Also on my Wattpad (same username).





	1. Worth Sharks • Bruce Banner x Reader

He'd always hoped he would find his solace. His special confidant to calm him down from a fury of rage, from an impending onslaught of anger, from any tumultuous turns of upset from the happiness he so desperately yearned for. Not that he deserved it, or that he thought it was at all plausible, but sometimes he would sigh while imbibing himself with steeped, bitter coffee and envisage a future of jovial, casual gaiety he didn't have to make an effort to achieve. He wouldn't be as constantly terrified of transforming, never stowing away in his room in fear of destroying all that he loved; he wished for someone to hug, to love, to freely adorn with doting and devotion that he could depend on.

With you, he had effectuated two of those things and unfortunately didn't seek purchase on the other one. It was too risky, and he couldn't lose the one grounding he had from falling apart.

You had entered his life two years prior, a mess of grease and laughter beside Tony: his new, astute mechanic. At first, it was just daily glances, salutations, arm brushes by the java machine-- nothing too divergent from his ordinary life. Within a week, you were talking more, him finding excuses to stop by Tony's workshop more often and you secretly doing the same for his lab. You were the kind, accepting soul he wished of and he was the adorable, stalwart companion that you couldn't stop thinking about. Your talks became longer, more cherished, something that he was always looking forward to. As your friendship progressed, so did the intimacy; he found relief in your succoring hugs, comforting hand on his shoulder, smiles of reassurance that gave him fuel to venture on through the day. All of his grievances were lessened, muted under his feet as long as you were available to soothingly stroke his curls, murmur support, and offer a popular, banal movie along with some blankets to inspirit the both of you. As much as he was praised for his deductive skills and intellect, he never believed the grin upon your face when he would agree just as enthusiastically, nestle under the covers with an endearing smile and wave for you to join him.

Falling in love with you was all too easy. He didn't exactly believe in love at first sight, but it had taken him barely an introduction to know that he would have an attachment to you. Sometimes it was damaging-- he could feel the green seeping into his eyes when you ranted about another man, wanting almost nothing more than to be the one encompassing you in warmth and affection instead of others-- but he always pacified himself. He had to if he wanted to keep you.

There had been moments when he had reached so close to a confession, so near a collapse in his pragmatic judgment, but it never happened. Even when Tony blatantly flirted with you, you wore a particularly ravishing outfit, or you even smirked at him a certain way, he would somehow placate his yen and shake his head with bemusement at his never-ending love for you.

Tonight was an exceptionally heart-wrenching night; he had to endure hours of your glamour, well-dressed in a dark-green ensemble, polished and refined (he might even say he missed the streaks of oil that typically accompanied you). It was only a quaint half-hour into Tony's party-- a 'small' one by his standards, an affair for all Stark employees and associates. Tony wasn't a man of religion, but he definitely wouldn't pass up the splendid opportunity for a Christmas gala. It was an excuse to flaunt his latest invention, most recent Vuitton suit, charming one-liners and guiding hands to his bedroom. Bruce wasn't as fanatical about the ordeal; he only really showed to avoid Tony's teasing and to see you. Mostly the latter, but Tony was no less of an annoyance.

There was something classical playing in the background, clashing with Metallica-- Pepper versus Tony, no doubt-- that was hardly prevailing over the increasingly-less-sober conversations and clinks of half-filled glasses. Bruce had managed to remain a wallflower hitherto you appeared, blushing and stumbling up next to him with one of the most carefree expressions he'd ever seen you show.

"Sassicaia? I didn't know you were such a wine connoisseur." You jested and raised your glass up to his.

"Hardly." Bruce raised his nearly-full one to yours and matched them, leaning back against the wall contentedly. You knew he was never very fond of liquor even before his transformation but now was almost uncomfortable with even the sight. If his emotions were too amplified, he feared the Other Guy would regain control, thus abstinence was the only option he saw fit.

"I simply chose the closest bottle on the counter."

"Mm, can't go wrong with that. Tony has good taste." You closed your eyes and tipped against his shoulder, resting your head from the pulsing noise for a moment. Tinsel and cinnamon ticked your nose, making you giggle.

Bruce frowned and clutched his drink tighter.

The song switched and now it was Ozzy Osbourne, scratchy words so far from comprehension you exhaled and slowly inched towards Bruce, murmuring inaudibly.

"Mr. Crowley, won't you ride my white horse..." His stillness in the sea of arms and laughter was serene and welcoming. You continued closer, dragging your half-lidded eyes and pallid fingers nearer. "Mr. Crowley, it's symbolic of course, approaching a time that is classic..." You looked up at him with a smile, sipping an iota more.

"I hear maidens call." Bruce lowly said, almost a whisper, watching you carefully. He shakily took another gulp of wine; you sighed.

"Classic. So, anyway--"

"I have to say, I'm a bit insulted. Sitting in the corner, not bothering to pay greetings to the host? I feel it," Tony downed the last bit of scotch in his hand, motioning to his Arc Reactor, "Right in here. Big stake. Little crooked, stained, still hurts." Donned in complete elegance-- and a bit of tipsy swaggering-- Tony sauntered over to Bruce and you, visibly inebriated yet still managing his usual, cynical attitude.

"Another breakthrough in your suit technology? Now machinery can experience pain? We must conduct research on this at once, Mr. Stark." You waved away the attendant offering more glasses of scotch-- mostly for Tony's benefit-- and straightened up your posture.

"Tony. Very humorous, (Y/N)." He glanced at the two of you, raising up a finger as if bewildered and tracing it between you. His eyes flitted quickly, rapidly, until brightening in a way that only meant trouble. Tony grinned and slowly pointed his finger upwards, clearly gesturing towards the mistletoe hanging quietly above.

"Oops." He wasn't sorry. Knowing him, he probably purposefully placed it there, betting on Bruce stowing away in this spot and you following him, the little cheat.

"Uh... We..." Bruce was stammering and flushing, already halfway down his glass.

"I expected more from you, Tony. A bit clichéd, really." You stared him down, ignoring any thoughts to do otherwise.

He shrugged nonchalantly and stared at his empty glass; he was nearly childlike.

"Still works."

Bruce shifted next to you and peered into your eyes, attempting to decipher any reaction you may be giving off. Unfortunately, he couldn't find anything and settled to mimic whatever you were doing, which was bending closer. His mouth was dry, and he struggled to swallow.

Tony looked almost uncomfortable.

You looked from him to Bruce, ingraining your mind with each worry line deepened by his scowl, his intense eyebrows grooved inwards, rough stubble drawing nearer. Tonight he was wearing a purple button-up, brown-slash-gray curls brushed almost forgetfully to the side, glasses forgone and lab coat only a wisp of a dream; you couldn't help the extra centimeter that pulled you closer. Another centimeter, and another. All for the mistletoe...

You pulled back.

"Maybe think of something more clever next time, Tony."

The lacking warmth and unhinged expression on Bruce's face almost made you revert-- almost-- but you stood firm and regained your composure.

"Sure, peaches. How about a riddle?" He didn't pause for a response. "What is stunning, fifty miles per hour, and made of gold?"

"Your new Lambo."

Tony considered this, biting his lip.

"No. You in my new Lambo, tomorrow at eight, on our way to Gramercy's."

Between the time you'd blinked, there was a new glass in his hand and his winning smirk. You halted, unsure about his advances; this seemed like a joke, except the look on his face didn't appear very fraudulent. You looked to Bruce, who was teetering and starting to tint green, a manic countenance in his eyes that only softened when you touched his wrist soothingly.

If you could tilt closer, see his mien without the hampering of flashing lights and a headache beginning to form, maybe you could interpret what he was trying to tell

"Did I stun you too much, sweetcheeks? Need a-- Oh my nonexistent God, I am going to fire that woman!" He thundered over the music switch-- now a lady singing a jolly rendition of 'Noel'-- and walked off, briefly pausing to promise you his return. You weren't directly happy about his leave but found relief in the moment of peace that now surrounded you.

Setting your drink on the counter in front of you, you watched Bruce do the same and turned to him, placing your head on his shoulder gently. His hands found the dip of your back.

"Don't go." His voice cracked and he pulled you firmly against him.

"What?"

You weren't sure what he meant; his words were muffled and you may have misheard.

"Don't... Tony--"

"Is my boss and friend, and will stay that way." You hummed against his chest, stroking his lower neck like you always did. His skin was mollifying and tender.

Bruce pulled back, and you could see the green slither away from his irises, transposed with delight. He moved to hold your shoulders and breathe out calmly-- as you'd showed him-- and nuzzle his head on top of yours.

"Good."

"Yeah..." You smiled against his chest, "I would never forget pizza night. Your movie pick this time. Hint: choose Jaws."

"I was actually hoping to see a documentary over the nucleotides that DNA polymerase adds during replication in--"

"Bruce."

"--Fine." He twirled a strand of your hair. "But not Jaws."

"Scared, Bruce? I'll hold you."

He was very fond of that idea, but was it worth sharks? Worth the gore?

...Yes.


	2. Up The Volume • Tony Stark x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pining isn't always easy, especially when you're Tony Stark's assistant... but he's always full of surprises.

Being an assistant to Tony Stark was... arduous, to put it simply. He was often stubborn, careless about official obligations, and unprofessional in a way that almost made you quit multiple times (his pet nicknames and constant innuendos had a way of wearing you down to exhaustion). He also had full access to the Stark Tower, meaning when he didn't want to be bothered, he wouldn't be.

Right now was one of those times. You'd been searching for the past half-hour, pestering FRIDAY so often about his whereabouts so frequently you were sure even the talking computer was frustrated with you. Each time it would only respond with: "The Most Handsome Man In The Universe is currently None of Your Business. Is there anything else I can help you with?" Later, you would have to have a very serious talk with Pepper-- your boss who had hired you after their enigmatic 'break-up'-- about your rights to override the vexing machine, but right now your priority was hunting down the missing billionaire. Not surprisingly, she always seemed to favor your side of the argument rather than Tony's.

You'd checked the usual brooding spots he went to: the lab, Dr. Banner's lab, the bar, and even his room-- shielding your eyes, of course-- but he wasn't there. Of course. After checking a few more reasonably plausible rooms, you'd caved in to the embarrassment and even started to ask around if anyone had seen Tony. They hadn't. Steve Rogers had given you a pitying look, lips curled downwards because he only had to deal with Tony's perverseness when they were on missions, but this was your whole job. And especially because this is the third time he'd disappeared that month, a new feat for even his level of obstinacy.

Maybe you were just a little peeved off; Tony wasn't entirely rotten. Even after your lengthy eight months of working for him almost every day (and nights, because your job included dragging him out of bars at 2 A.M. when he was wasted to the point of humiliation and Pepper couldn't handle another publicity scandal), you had only managed a few glimpses of the considerate, caring man he tried so well to hide.

Reasonably thinking, it would be sensible for you to quit; sure, the pay was great, but should you have to deal with a man that acted only out of self-preservation? At least, that's what you thought when you first started the job, but then you'd seen Tony in action. You'd seen him carrying children back to their parents after an attack, stocking the pantry with Pop Tarts for Thor when he thought no one was looking, working on a new arm for Bucky when he had any spare time. You'd heard him arguing with Pepper about a pay raise for you, calling you whenever you were even a minute late to work (under the guise that tardiness was unacceptable, not because he was worried about you), and setting up a meeting for you with Clint after he'd learned what a fanatic you were about Hawkeye. Tony had managed to carry out his whims with a calculating, amused face, along with some snarky comments, but you knew better. That's why you were appointed as his assistant, naturally: you could read people, and that was a very necessary trait to deal with Tony Stark. Every quirk of his lips, crinkle of his eyes, fiddling of his fingers and any other habits from his diction to his heartbeat was yours to decipher. And, as anyone who'd ever heard of Tony Stark might guess, analyzing a genius was not easy. At all.

And probing a genius was particularly difficult when said genius was not even in the vicinity of you. Instead, he was probably lazing away in solidarity, tinkering with a new invention or edging from a nervous breakdown as you'd found him before. Those instances were the most disheartening, seeing a man with walls more formidable than the empire he'd built torn down and aching for comfort that he wouldn't allow, rather seeking cover and forcefully making you leave the room. It wasn't a secret that he had underlying issues, namely PTSD, but your job didn't cover panic attacks, so therefore you couldn't interfere (despite your wishes to help him) without risking discharge, even if it killed you a little inside each time he asked you to leave and you complied. Maybe it was the booze leaking off of him that clouded your judgment, but you might even think he looked a little remorseful in those times as well.

Stupidity was not one of your characteristics; you'd thought about the possibility of him being interested in you, flirting with you for-real, feeling something other than superiority when you stepped into the room. There might be signs of a romantic interest budding, and you'd definitely be lying if you said he was undesirable, but your work was prevalent over fanciful reveries in the end. Even if you did acknowledge him in a different respect than that of an employer, even if you played with the idea of a possible relationship, you'd still feel as if you were violating him. Despite you being provided with the bare minimum of details on Tony's past and his breakup with Pepper, you were intuitive enough to realize that he needed a friend foremost.

So a friend to Tony you had aspired to become. In that, you'd hit a roadblock: if Tony hid himself so constantly, both behind doors and humor, how were you to befriend him?

And at that moment, you'd come across a paradoxically mightier impediment. It was as if Tony was mocking you, daring you to play this game of hide-and-seek with the moneyed-man that would only ever end in irritation and aggravated deadlines. For such a brilliant man, you wondered why he purposely initiated these distractions of pleasure that wasn't really pleasure, and instead a ploy that only acted to create unease. Or perchance his intention was to anger you, or anger Pepper, or to merely gain entertainment from the reddened face from you he would eventually stumble upon, smug and casual about yet another win. There were no clear rules defining what 'winning' entailed or consisted of, but you could conjure the vote was in his favor.

The elevator whirred around you, jeering at you for the hour now wasted, carrying you to the top level of the Stark Tower because you really had nowhere else to look at that point, so why not start at the top and flush him out? You knew Tony was wayward, but you also knew he wouldn't cruelly leave you in the tower for an entire day. He had to be somewhere.

Around five levels up, music started caressing you: soft, sweet, and gentle, definitely a classic, until-- "Never gonna give you up! Never gonna let you down! Never gonna--". A small smirk wormed its way onto your determined face, never taken aback at how playful Tony could be in these kinds of situations. At least you could infer that you were close to finding him (Tony's japes nearly always had an ulterior basis).

Up and up and up, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92... you anticipated for the 'ding'... 93, XX... there was no ding. There was no stopping, only a more frightening voyage higher than you knew even existed. You'd memorized the entire Main Tower before, for reasons you would rather not discuss, and there was no elevator shaft that led to the roof-- only stairs accessible from lower levels. This definitely had 'Tony' painted all over it in careful, heckling stripes of color.

"Mr. Stark!" You frantically looked around the elevator for any cameras or hints of what you were supposed to do. There was nothing.

After a few more dreaded seconds, your travels ended and the doors opened to blind you with the beaming sun, Tony's dazzling smirk, and the glass of sparkling champagne tilted in his hand.

"Well, hello, sweetheart. What brings you here?" His voice just dripped and oozed the arrogance and mirth you'd anticipated, affable eyes shielded from you by sleek sunglasses and the rest of him robed well in a form-fitting black suit with a red flower tucked in the lapel as an invitation for you to join him. He looked absolutely stunning.

"Mr. Stark, I have a call for you from Mr. Henderson regarding the department of cinematics. Please call him back promptly." Slowly, the sun lessened its obstruction, allowing you to admire the bouts of lilies, tulips, and daisies that emblazoned the outer edges of the elevator doors. They were joined by intricately laced vines snaking through them, threading to the walls neatly, leading down to the velvet-clad floor and onto the garden beyond. You could perceive a scintillating fountain in the distance, a park bench with its material curved to form a swan, a bush clipped in the shape of-- oh, god, it was in the shape of Iron Man's head.

"See something you like?" Tony trifled with your fascination. "Step outside, darling."

After a moment of considering this, as well as your sanity, you obliged and followed him out. He began to lead you through the circuitous sanctuary, expertly guiding you along the smoothed marble path. With your job being so rigorous, experiencing this caliber of natural beauty was invigorating, especially considering he'd managed to turn an entire rooftop into a celestial haven whilst keeping it so quiet that no-one realized it. Tony's steps were muted and superimposed by the sound of the circling wind, the purling streams of water, and low hum of insects. He'd never seemed like the type of person to enjoy nature like this, but now you could see it; he fit in perfectly to the serene atmosphere, as if he was another chiseled statue for your admiration.

"This... is beautiful," you cooed, "But, Mr. Stark, please answer Mr. Henderson. It has already been over an hour since he has called, due to you hiding from me yet again." There was a reprimanding tone in your voice, despite you trying to be amicable as best you could. Tony was a likeable person who you wanted to become friends with, but he'd also just sent you on a tortuous chase that all ended for naught, and you believed that warranted at least a little anger.

"The movie deal? Uhh, no, sweetcheeks, I'm too busy saving lives and defending the world from the horrors that threaten to plague it." He winked, steps coiling back towards the adorned entrance.

"Yes, you are."

"I'm what? Strikingly attractive? A fine piece of hunk? The love interest of your most encapturing dreams?" Tony paused to favor a bush of vivid roses, pinching one at the stem-- "Don't worry your pretty face, I made these thornless."-- and thoroughly inspecting it before flamboyantly handing it to you with a flourish. Your cheeks colored and you nodded your appreciation, noting the smile that stretched his cheeks.

"Thank you." You paused, thumbing the creamy petals contentedly. "Yes, you do protect Earth and all its people. Mr. Stark, your work is incredible, and no one should ever discredit you for that. I might not be alive if it weren't for you. However, your game of hide-and-seek is getting a bit nettlesome." Turning to him, you saw his veneer slipping through, eyebrows raised and peaking through the sunglasses that were promptly removed. He stared into your eyes, chocolate overwhelming you.

Had that been too far? Your job was as an assistant, after all, not a therapist. However, when you saw his rigidness and obligatory twinkle after acclaiming his accomplishments, you couldn't help but share your thoughts.

"Yes," he grunted gently, "I am aware. That's why I said what I did, sugar. Any other assignments to nag me about now?"

You would usually be intimidated by the frown that accompanied his jeer, or exasperated at his aversion to properly responding to your questions, but you could tell that he was simply trying to hide his gratitude. Tony was watching you closely, swallowing roughly at the silence that followed. Looking away from that boasting sight, you twirled the rose between your fingers and responded coyly.

"I'm sure there are other things. But first, can I ask-- well, you know what I'm going to ask."

"Mm, yeah." He radiated sarcasm, nodding with humor.

"When and why did you built this? It must've taken a very long time, not to mention in secrecy of it all."

Clouds briefly passed over the sun, grabbing rays from your bodies arbitrarily and pushing around the others. The heat and cool interchanged multiple times, causing you to lean towards Tony just a little more.

"Just a nice place for Uncle Sam to kick back and sip some tea while I, uh--" He checked his watch theatrically, eyes glancing up temptingly, "have a meeting with Fury about the horrors of whatever new bad-guy's ass I'll have to kick." Again, a wink and a smile that bragged his dimples so well you wouldn't mind staring all day.

"The meeting with Fury? That started at 12."

Tony started walking faster, amused by your shock

"So I'll be there at 2! And call me Tony." He grazed his hand over a lily, looking up at the elevator with a twinkle and watching with pride as the doors opened. He beckoned you in with him, leaning against the inside walling and eyeing you overtly.

You followed him in, chuckling at the surfeit of technology he appeared to have to incorporate at every possible opportunity. Stark Tower was fortified with the most risible mechanics you'd ever heard of, and you'd eventually learned to stop questioning him and simply enjoy it all. However, retina-scanning cameras for an elevator shaft seemed a bit... extra.

But as Tony had informed you once, Extra was his middle name (you'd printed out his birth certificate right after to show him because you had been done with his egocentric shit that particular day).

A relentless tune of Black Sabbath charged the air between you as the doors closed, sealing off the splendor outside.

"Okay, Tony." You couldn't hide your smile. "FRIDAY, turn up the volume, please."


	3. The Past Changes • Bucky Barnes x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HYDRA has stripped you of your past self, routinely tortured you to the degree of almost no return, and Bucky won't allow your self-pity anymore.

His last words to you were "I'll be back."

No, they weren't the last words you heard out of his mouth, but you considered them to be. Were you even alive now? You've been stripped of your entire self, made anew, and now scraped back down to the raw; Bucky was so strong. He'd managed to regain his 'old' self back and return to the normal, act as if he was truly over what had damaged you both... That was never a real possibility for either of you, and you weren't so keen to try.

The years in that immaculate, mercenary facility were nothing you could even describe. Torture. Endless, mindless torture to create a perfect weapon, a puppet that they could control with a list of words and hardened jabs. You wouldn't-- couldn't-- reminisce about your past in a gray cell and wrenching mewls, but you could allow yourself memories of your confidant, the times of need (that you could remember so far) that he readily provided comfort for: every promise of escape between your needle marks, softened smile to ease the handprints, gentle touch on your back that almost distracted you from the metals chafing your bones inside of that precious experiment of a body.

Then Bucky had been rescued.

You couldn't blame him; you knew he wasn't all there when he was liberated, nodding and agreeing with a slack of his jaw, too far gone to resist the promised emancipation. From your cell, you'd seen him turn around almost apologetically, mouthing a quick vow just as heart-lifting as his others before slamming an enemy agent to the ground and bolting. If he hadn't left, neither of you would be safe now, and you knew that.

But he couldn't fathom what they had done to you in penance for their loss of a healthy soldier.

Now they needed a new Winter Soldier to replace and return the old: a more forceful, more fearful successor who would finally get the pleasurable release of conscious scourge and instead fully succumb to the Soldier's mindset of apathy and repose. They hadn't given you a choice, but you weren't complaining-- it would be the closest thing to the end you'd yearned for from the first whiff of chemicals.

It had taken them many tries to finally get the formula right for a more brutal, compliant warrior, but it was still too quick for Bucky to save you in the year he'd spent-- S.H.I.E.L.D. had spent-- planning an attack. By the time he'd busted down the door to the medical lab, you had been given your final orders: Kill The Winter Soldier.

HYDRA knew he was no longer theirs, tech retaken by Stark Industries and all former traces of their cherished killing apparatus removed thoroughly. The Winter Soldier could never be returned, so he would rather be terminated.

Your hands found his throat. His found yours, trying to tug them off, eyes pleading with you to stop, to remember who he was. All you could see was a pathetic deviant. The silver knitted in your knuckles parted, needles emerging and dangerously pressing against his neck.

After that point, you were gone.

You were removed, stripped of the technology that binded your skin to machinery, ransacked of the very sanity that gave you enough relief from pain to breathe. Of course, it was more difficult for the snarky-man-with-innuendos to save you than it had been for Bucky. Your blood was too adulterated for a true recovery until he could fully understand what new serum they had concocted. Bucky was more upset about it than you were.

Now you lived with the Avengers in a 'safe room', given access to the Tower but scarcely anywhere outside (not that you ever left your room). It was better than HYDRA in terms of aesthetic, at least.

Bucky came to visit you often, always ending his one-sided chats with a kiss to your forehead and pitying look, shoes clacking further away from you until the silence resumed. According to the talking invisible robot-- J.A.R.D., you think-- a couple months have passed.

It would be a lie if you insisted that you didn't blame Bucky. As much as you were grateful for him and all that he'd done to help you, he'd also deserted you with the unscrupulous scientists for you to fend for yourself, knocking you completely down before flying down to 'retrieve' you in order to fulfill his covenants.

You admired his courage and determination to overcome his past-- he was now working with the Avengers to protect the world, using his enhancements for deeds so righteous you could barely comprehend them. The only purpose of you was to maim, kill, destroy.

Maim, kill, destroy.

Maim, kill, destroy.

How could you ignore everything to pretend you were someone else? You couldn't be innocent or forgiving anymore; you only knew agony and methodical practices. You only knew the trauma and abrasion of your stability that could only be alleviated by Bucky, the chivalrous man in your same predicament. In that time, you two became closer than most people would ever be, pressing against each other for consolation and aid under persecution of pristine lab coats. If it weren't for his embraces and feeble jokes and your solace for him, you doubted either of you would've had enough reserve left to continue on and hope for a better future.

"How are you feeling today, darling? I was thinking we could go to the library. You always said you missed the feeling of smooth paper in your hands." Bucky slipped into your room grinning, tone making it seem as if he believed you had a chance of accepting his offer.

"Why come? I could kill you."

"You've tried before," he chuckled, though you weren't convinced it was out of humor, "And you didn't succeed."

"My programming is telling me to choke you right now, slip my fingers around your throat and watch every last flutter of life leave your eyes, and I sometimes wonder why I don't. Why am I here, Bucky? Why do I have access beyond this room? Where are my handcuffs and morphine drips?"

He looked mildly surprised-- and rightfully so-- with your rant, taking a couple steps closer with pause.

"The first time I met you, you were crying." He stopped to peer into your eyes, making sure you wouldn't attack when he continued closer and sat down next to you. "I thought you had already been tortured, weeping because of your current predicament, but you weren't, doll. Your tears were because of me."

Bucky reached up slowly and stroked your hair, leaning in a slight inch closer and lowering his voice.

"You were crying because they had captured another test subject, saddened because of my then-determined fate. Darling, from that moment, I knew I couldn't be the cause of your tears."

"Okay, Bucky." Annoyance wove itself into your tone; you were peeved off and wishing to be alone.

"Shh, shh. It's the same as it was then, right? You're scared of hurting me and hurting innocent people because of things not under your control. But look at me, darling. I'm safe. You're safe. You haven't hurt me yet, so for now, let's focus on getting back that smile." One of his hands strayed from your hair to tenderly touch your shoulder and move in lazy, amorphous shapes and lines. He smelled of herbaceous, heady oak, comforting you in a way that you'd missed for a long time. Although not only his smell consoled you; he was certainly attractive, and months away from only basic hygiene and filthy captivity had made him even more appealing. Slim traces of stubble shadowed his chin, accompanied by his woolly, fleecy strands of his hair that you'd always adored. Not to mention his eyes: they were caring and serene, completely different than the nearly-completely-cold ones that The Winter Soldier had forced him to adopt.

"Self-preservation, James."

"Oh, is that an emotion you're admitting to?" He mildly tickled your upper arm in jesting, causing you to jump back abruptly and shoot him a rough glare.

"No. I must preserve myself because I am property of HYDRA. I cannot purposely ruin my framing or survival."

He sighed and moved back towards you again, more careful this time with his positioning to not set you off. You, of course, didn't miss his touch. Did not.

"You can feel. Please, (N/N), at least let yourself have some warmth of sentiment. You're human, just like me, just like every other person on this Earth. You deserve it." He sounded broken, pleading for you to listen to him.

"No."

"You," he breathed out heavily and closed his eyes briefly, "are compassionate. You're affectionate."

Bucky leaned in closer and quickly pressed his lips against your forehead, making sure you weren't about to strangle him before continuing.

"You're thoughtful."

A kiss to your temple.

"You're charming."

A kiss to your cheek, this time lingering a bit longer.

"I wish you could see just how free you are now."

A kiss to your neck.

"You can feel emotions, and I'll show you proof."

He smiled and let his hands come back to your face, slowly encapturing your nape in-between them. Bucky tipped closer until your breaths were mixing with his own, eyes close enough to find each shade of beauty in his.

"You've been quiet. No resentment anymore?"

You made a small chuckle-grunt involuntarily, unable to lucidly speak. He grinned and sealed your bodies together, embracing your lips with his own, forehead against yours in the most intimate way.

Bucky tasted less manly and acrid that you'd envisioned, his delightful savor making you stay put for longer than you needed, hesitating the order your programming was telling you to make and pull away. He kept leaning closer, unfurling your mouths broader, becoming more frenzied and fervent in his ministrations upon your access. You didn't want to pull away, but this was the optimal time for completing your last mission; he was a traitor, and it didn't matter how much he was making your toes curl or your body heat up. If you didn't do this, they would kill you.

Just as he began to nip on your lower lip, you pulled away-- nay, you tried to pull away. Bucky only tightened his grip around you, tilting his head for a better angle and kissing you even deeper. Every corner and curve of your body now pressed against his, and you were surged with even more adrenaline, moving your lips to tell him to stop-- not to reciprocate his kiss, because that would be against everything you were alive for.

He became more intense, more fanatical, more dedicated to proving to you how sincere he was in his words until he drew back to reward you with an affectionate grin, still keeping your bodies close.

"You felt something."

"No. You taste like onion chips and leather. I thought men from the forties would have enough chivalry to not force themselves upon a woman, but you apparently don't."

"Anger and disgust are still emotions, doll." His smile never decreased.

"And you're too conceited. Try staying away from Mister Arrogant a little more."

Bucky chuckled and kissed your cheek again before pulling back and moving his hands behind your head to your shoulders.

"I'll do that. Maybe you could try coming with me to get some Chinese leftovers in the kitchen?"

"Absolutely not, James."

He sighed.

"Darling... admit it." He seemed sad again. "You are safe here. You can go back to being human again; it'll be hard, definitely, but you can regain happiness. Joy. Love."

"Love. Sure, because a broken, mutated deviant like me with a kink for apathy will do so well here. Guys are just lining up to this show of metal and indifference and fractured--"

"Me."

"'It's called 'hope', darling. Just let your entire sense of self-worth go and start anew so I can kiss you again, and we can all hope for a happy-the-fuck-after.'"

"(Y/N)."

"James."

"Bucky. Call me Bucky, doll." His hands finally left your shoulders, now resting in his lap regrettably. "It's called hope, and it's not a trick. It's commitment and love and dreams of something better. I can't overwhelm you with everything I'd like to say to you, but I do have hope for you, and for us. You felt something when I kissed you."

A beat passed.

Two beats passed.

"Okay. Where do we start?"

He smiled and shook his head in near-disbelief.

"Take my hand, angel."


	4. The Exception • Steve Rogers x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A product of my love for Villain!Reader (with a sense of redemption, of course).

Strings of cerise and ebony celebrated your arrival, hanging lowly and grazing your head as you walked into the richly kindled, scarlet room, new prize draped behind you and floating effortlessly. Scraping and steaming accepted you into their homely cavern, walls widening as you continued through the intricately carved doors. Moss seethed under your bare feet, dampness providing you a breath of accomplishment that rewarded you each time you returned. Tonight would be a good night.

From the shadows, thin bones and rings of gold hanging from their mouths, your comrades appeared, chortling and peering over your shoulder. It was routine by now, and you had enough patience to humor them for a bit, if not only to possibly loot a handful of berries when their eyes were averted. Fruit season was long over.

"What a nice catch. Don't mind if we take a sniff, eh? Food's been rough since the new ship strictures." They were a mix of voices, slurred and heavy.

"Hmm," you pretended to ponder their request, "I don't know. I think I'll keep him-- quite a looker for a mortal." Your words were friendly, but they knew that they were final; your trophy was yours. If any doubt was held, your perked horns and sharp smile assured them of your unspoken threat.

"Shame. Tomorrow, then? Got a new spot. Juicy and pliable, just how you like them."

"We'll see. Too slow to hound by yourselves anymore?"

They chuckled and shuffled between their feet, beginning to form a small lane between them for you to pass. A dark green liquid was shared among them, eyeing you carefully in hesitation.

"No. Just thought you'd like some easier meat. More time for prepping and savoring, of course, Scourge." Their voices lessened and evened out as the more timid ones inched away in pursuit of easier negotiations.

"Thank you for the care. If I may..." You gestured to the square beyond them, and they readily obliged, not-so-secretly attempting to sneak glances at the man behind you. It didn't matter; they couldn't taint him with their eyes, and it was custom to show off snares.

The walk to your quarters wasn't tedious, but you wouldn't have the title you did if not for exhibiting pride and glory in your adventures. This wasn't done to purely pretend; the stares you earned were very well deserved, and your chains clicked together just a bit faster as you continued, face not giving away anything except a dimple.

"I do sincerely wish my chambers are to your liking. You," you clasped your hand unto the handle and stroked two fingers along it, compressing it down swiftly and waiting as the sliding barriers unlatched, "seem the type to not appreciate my metal-simplistic-scavenged aesthetic, although I'm sure if you say any of the other rooms in this building, you would be very enthusiastic about being chosen to reside here."

Checking for any onlookers, you quietly glided in and strode to the back of the room, setting down the human on a rug. He still looked as inert as when you'd caught him, so you merely cuffed one of his hands to the grid behind him and stalked off to complete some adjustments for your vessel; today's travels had left it less immaculate than you'd like.

Along the way to the harbor, you snagged a couple coins off of some drunkards, a piece of bread when the agriculturists were preoccupied, and a couple scraps of machinery from the ship next to yours. Capturing people was easy; you didn't have the time nor patience to barter with others for your necessities. It wasn't as if they would accuse you anyway, merely idly threaten you to accompany them along on a mission-- which only ever ended in blood.

In the flight deck, you categorized various utensils whilst grazing on the bread, smoothing out the chaos that had transpired. You straightened out the exterior-- as if bullets would do anything more than dent, dullards-- and reclaimed its prestige. After you were satisfied with the near-effortless chore, you returned to your quarters, hoping for something more eventful.

Fortunately, that was possible.

"You!" The man bursted up, tugging on his shackles.

"Yes, I. It has been... hmm, at least a few Earth hours since you arrived. Would you like some crackers?" You slowly sauntered to the cupboard, depositing your pillages.

"No. Who are you and where am I?"

Turning to him with a pout on your face, you sighed and shook your head.

"That's just disheartening."

"Excuse me?"

"I was expecting something different from you. Dressed up in your ditzy suit, brandishing a shield, yelling out orders like you're someone of importance. Not to mention your muscles--"

"What? What am I supposed to ask? Is this some sort of test? I don't-- I don't understand what you're talking about, ma'am/sir." He struggled against the fetters again, clearly disconcerted at his lack of triumph. From what you had seen when spying on him, he was abnormally strong, however not capable of prevailing over your technology.

You shrugged and gently laid upon your jagged, stone floor, leaning against the headboard beside you. This was more tiresome than you'd anticipated.

"No, but thank you for the polite addressing." You studied his face intently, pausing to imbibe your mind with the unusually bright blue eyes, defined jaw, wreathing, blond hair, and intent expression that was amicable but determined. Comparing him to most of the other mortals you'd seen, he was fairly attractive, even to you.

The tugging on his chains became more rapid and fervent, looking to you as if for comfort or reassurance.

"Are you looking for money? Are you aiming to refurbish me into a weapon of some fashion? My friends will be here soon, wherever we are. Let me go, please, and I promise you won't be hurt. No one will. Okay?" The strange blue-and-red man seemed concerned for your safety, something that made you smile wickedly with satisfaction and delight.

"What's your name, dear?"

He visibly gaped at this, pausing in his futile endeavors of escaping for a moment of disbelief. Whoever he was, it was obvious he expected you to be aware of his name.

"Steve Rogers. Might I ask what yours is?"

"(Y/N)," you found yourself divulging your true name to him, private information you never shared with your treasures, "Although I am most often referred to as Scourge. Call me whatever you'd like, it doesn't affect me."

Steve nodded slowly, slightly confused, and continued his fruitless squalling.

"I suppose I shouldn't say 'nice to meet you.' Do you mind telling me why I'm locked up here, then, if you don't recognize me?" Steve hopefully glanced at you and raised an eyebrow cautiously, moving to achieve a more agreeable position than you had set him in. His knees raised up in front of him, feet on the floor in a triangular manner, back resting against the carmine vines and rocks behind, hands bordering him and still wrestling against their tether.

"I do. However, this has been quite a bore, so I will be resting now, little Steve. Vivid dreams." You ambled over to your bed, taking a brief bit to arrange your pillows and blankets meticulously.

"Wait! (Y/N)! What do you mean? I can--"

He was abruptly shut off as you snapped your fingers, not bothering to look at his surely bewildered face as you settled down into the comforter, drifting off to the ceaseless rain and schemes of your intentions with the silenced human.

Steve surely wasn't what you'd expected, but he was much more calm about his predicament than most others; you weren't sure what his exact lineage or specialty was, but you were positive that you'd find out soon. All of your guests eventually broke into the cyclical nature of your world.

//

"What a morning! Congratulations, Steve Rogers, you have survived the night here. Maybe you'll want those crackers I previously offered?" You crouched down next to the shivering man, chuckling at his fearful visage before removing his tranquility with a flick of your wrist.

"Scourge. (Y/N). Please, tell me what--"

"So no crackers? That's unfortunate. I was hoping to fill you out, create a more tender texture. I, personally, am a fan of protein-- look at you!-- but succulent lipids are marvelous as well.

Steak over lean beef, right?" You forcefully smiled at him and stood up.

"Protein? Are you insinuating that you-- wait! (Y/N)! Where is--"

"Shush, shush. Want to be disciplined again, Stripes?" Trailing a finger over his lips, you fished a dented, crumpled box of licorice you'd swiped on your way to collect him. You'd never tasted the black canes, but knew the sugar content was within your objective.

You held the sweets out to him, slowly as if not to startle him, and waited for him to pick them from your hands. He didn't.

"Okay. Okay, I understand, I won't whine." He was almost whispering now. "But please, tell me why you brought me here, Miss."

Slanting your head, you shrugged and pushed the box further towards him. This time, he accepted it.

"Food."

"Mh... me, or the licorice?"

At this, you laughed. Shrill. Unbridled.

Then you moved to leave.

"Wait! (Y/N)! You can't eat me, it's not-- it's not safe." He sounded so delectably desperate, vying for you to stay and entertain his pleads of security. Just for a bit of fun, you allowed yourself the leisure.

"You have the flu. No, cholera? You were bitten by a poisonous spider that somehow hasn't killed you in the span of time you've been here. Wait... let me guess... there's a bomb inside your stomach waiting for rupture."

"No, no, please. I'm serious. I have superhuman serum in me, and I'm not sure you would be able to digest it. You know it's true." Steve was so sincere in his words you could barely uphold a leer.

"I do?"

"Yes! You said I was different. I am, okay? I'm Captain America, I have chemicals inside me that could kill you, I can run fast, maintain unearthly stamina, use strength never before seen in humans. You chose me because I'm special, (Y/N)."

"Hm... break out of those chains and I'll consider it to be accurate."

Your world's technology was far beyond anything human scientists could counter, elements used that hadn't yet been discovered on Earth. Even most of your own people were easily defeated by the simple pair of handcuffs, magic-gifted included.

He rose up, accepting the challenge easily. You walked out to the sound of rattling, returning a few hours later with your pockets a bit heavier to the same jingling. You sighed.

"Tough luck, Steve Rogers the Captain. Any time to eat that licorice while I was away, or were you too busy with your futile endeavors?"

"These are-- I can do it. I can break out, just a little more time."

His blue eyes pierced yours with persistence, unwavering in his efforts. It was admirable.

"No, you can't."

"But--"

"Eat the licorice and let me think, Steve."

He obliged and chewed the most likely melted candy, watching you questioningly and devotedly as you stood in front of him in thought. It all seemed like a ploy, but he did have a valid point-- he wasn't a random pick. You'd seen him hold up weights much denser than the average person and run miles beyond others; he was preferable because of the protein count, but now you couldn't deny the coincidences.

"I can't take that chance... hmm. You're staying here until I can confirm it, though." You hated being upstaged, so this would have to do.

Of course, he wouldn't be able to leave anyway-- couldn't have his friends coming after you-- but the cuffs would stay on for now, at least.

//

"No forks? No knives? I'm cleared, right? I can go home?" He sounded so optimistic, so expectant, you almost regretted returning.

"Hands out."

Steve grinned and held them out to you cheerfully. They were unlocked with a simple incantation and snap.

"Thank you, thank you, I was beginning to lose feeling in my legs. Thank you." He struggled standing up, wobbling and falling a few times, grasping onto the rocks behind him for support. He was much paler than he'd been a week ago-- his nibbles on the food you gave him affected his physique greatly-- and much weaker. However, his personality had become more prominent and now even more bright.

Out of all the people you'd met, he was definitely the most favorable; you'd been nearly coerced into dealing with him for eight days, enduring all of his questions and stories. It was most likely a way to make you like him, but it worked nonetheless.

"So...," he wiggled his brows, "Where to now? Your ship? Are already we on a ship?"

"No. You're staying here."

The blue-clad man faltered and frowned. He took a step closer, rubbing his temples soothingly.

"How long?"

He continued to move towards you, towering over your frame in worry and apprehension. The lacking height instilled a sense of nearer equality than superiority, puzzling you as to which may be the true.

"You can't go back. This is my home, and I'd like to see it survive, Captain Chains."

"You promised, (Y/N)! You said I could go home, I could be free! Why this now?" Steve stopped just in front of you, staring deep into your eyes with labored, frustrated breaths. He was close enough to touch; you had to lift your head dramatically to make eye contact with him.

"I let you free of the chains. Wait-- does this mean you don't enjoy my company? Agh. And I poured out my entire soul to you." You fake-pouted and glared at the man.

"You did not-- that's not the point. I won't attack this place. I won't assemble the Avengers or avenge my kidnapping." He leaned in just a little closer. "I promise."

"Bull! Bull. Judging by all the stories and tenets you've told me, you would never allow my world to exist. Your sole purpose is to protect your kind."

"I know..." He sighed. "I know. But you didn't annihilate me, and not just because of my blood."

You stepped back cautiously.

"Not your blood. The serum."

"(Y/N), your restraints were looser than needed. You are the kindest miscreant I've ever encountered-- you kept offering me food, listening to my past even though you complained. I don't think you're evil."

"You were an exception, Steve."

"No, I wasn't! You have more morals than you allow yourself. Just lis--"

"Stand down. I can still harvest you for parts on the market."

"But you won't." He sadly smiled and meandered to your bed, flopping onto the covers unreservedly, hands strewn haphazardly and carelessly. It didn't take long before he was asleep-- the position he'd been in had deprived him of much rest-- and oblivious to your presence.

His utter trust in you was a conundrum; why put full faith in someone who was threatening to dismember you?

Steve Rogers was undoubtedly special and innocent to a caliber that curled your toes and captured your attention; you'd deal with him when he was awake. For now, some solitude.

//

"I thought you said strawberries were very rare here?"

"I did. Enjoy them."

The unlikely pair of you were gathered around the small pile of straw-like grass inside your hut, semi-enjoying a picnic of cheeses, berries, and green beans. You'd discovered Steve had a particular affinity for strawberries, which didn't really surprise you. He seemed the type to sit around his sleek, wooden table on Sundays and snack on fruits with his family to slow gospel music, unadulterated and innocent and all the lacy images of disgusting purity you couldn't stand. Maybe you were reading too much into it.

"Thank you, then..."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

You both held awkward contact for a few moments, breaking away with a huff. Reaching for another slice of Swiss, you permitted him the conversation you could see he was eager to initiate (only hesitating in respect-slash-fear of you).

"Tell me about Bucky. I'm still waiting for the conclusion to his story. What happened to the metal arm?" You took a bite of the cheese in a beguiling manner and leaned back onto your elbows. Steve visibly twinkled and corrected his posture.

"He still has it, although Tony's pretty upset about that. He can't handle the failure of not being able to one-up HYDRA."

"Tony... the narcissistic billionaire?"

He laughed and almost choked on his food. Steve waved his hand in the air, gesturing to his hacking and coughing that eventually faded out to chuckles.

"Yes, the-- I'll have to tell him... you..." He swallowed thickly and reached for another piece.

"Hmm." You couldn't give into his melancholia; it would undermine everything you had built yourself on. He could continue to be sad, it wouldn't affect you in the slightest. You only had to ignore the pit of guilt that tugged at you.

Steve expelled air from his lungs sharply and wheeled to you suavely, fulfilling all the claims of the 'ladies' man' he was. You still didn't buy it; he was too genuine.

"What's wrong?"

"Pardon?"

"You seem off. Is everything okay?"

Steve, the (freed) prisoner of another world, kept in a room with a cynical sorceress/er, was worried about your state of mind. It wasn't such a wonder why you were able to condone his stay with you.

"Of course. It's just... this meal seems to be missing something." You pressed your lips together and slid down your eyelids half-heartedly.

Steve stared at you.

You stared at him.

Simultaneously, you both broke into a protracted round of sniggering.

"God, you're so sardonic."

//

"So you have seen it?"

"Possibly."

"(Y/N)..." He groaned and adjusted his sitting stance.

"A circular, vibranium shield painted in bright blue, red, and white coloring with a star in the center? Hmm. Hard to say."

Steve had been with you for an entire 'month' now-- you didn't use that measuring, but knew it was a substantial amount of time-- and had only grown more yearning towards his past life. That was mostly channeled into his hampering about his beloved shield.

It wasn't that you didn't trust him; you knew you could vanquish his buckler with a blink. You doubted he'd even attack you at all-- no, the problem was the onlookers. They had been made aware of his prolonged presence, not by you but not to your worry either. If he was to stay with you as long as you intended, it wouldn't be such a secret.

However, your reputation and stature in society wasn't attributed to mercy or generosity. Anyone who was with you longer than three days arose questions. Naturally, these inquiries and accusations were limited to stares and shuffles away, fear of your wrath too great to overcome. But eventually you would be interrogated, and what to say to that? If you disclosed the truth behind Steve's lodging, you would be offered copious bouts of coins that would be impertinent to decline and would only result in more queries. You knew that after all this time, it would be very difficult to sell him to the market where he would be no doubt dismembered and dissected, be the subject of wretched things you chose not to mull over when conducting your business. Steve was someone you now eagerly awaited returning to after a day of work, and if not just for his safety, there was also a selfish aspect in your anxiety that poked you about the loss you would feel; if he left, you would be right back to your old tendencies, scraping by thoughtlessly with a higher body count every moonrise.

The hunting and scavenging was what you had been raised to do, bred to be a robust zenith of your species to collect specimens, but with Steve, it almost felt wrong. You hadn't traveled to Earth since him, and you were debating when you ever would. He was so passionate about his fellow mortals, constantly fascinating you with stories of his battles to protect his people. The plebeians didn't seem all too valuable to you, but he was enough of a surprise to allow yourself a chance of change. Your morals were skewed and slanted, much to muddled for you to decide what was right anymore.

"If you wouldn't mind, next time you go please look for it?" You couldn't refuse those begging eyes.

"Okay, Steve, okay."

You found it-- not that its location was ever in question-- the next time you went but only sighed and shifted it to another corner, returning with a thin-lipped shrug and handful of crackers. Your morals could wait.

//

"More stares today?" He was nestled in the corner under a thin veneer of moss, picking apart pistachios listlessly. Earlier, he had recommended them, and now you couldn't keep yourself away from the seeds. The transition from highly-regarded-chaser outside to the warmth of Steve's smile inside your room always made you feel better, even on the most heavy of days.

"Mm." You didn't have enough energy or remaining effort to thoroughly respond, instead snatching a torn, attenuated cloth off of your dresser and heaving it across your shoulders, protected in its sheer veil.

"Any more pistachios?"

"Mm."

Steve frowned and stood, momentarily dusting pistachio crumbs from his leather tunic, then trudged over to you briskly. He pocketed the pouch of goods you had tucked in your belt, waiting for anything else you had to say. You didn't, precluding his gaze and evolving a particular affection to your flooring. The goblins had done an excellent job in furnishing the rock, gray specks all smoothed and lustrous.

"You could just send me back... to Earth..." He sounded even reluctant to say the words, though still sincere in his endeavors. You knew it was his foremost desire.

"Could."

"You know I wouldn't harm you, (Y/N)."

"My home."

"I..." He groaned and carded a full set of dry, peely fingers through his matted hair. Despite the coarse conditions, he still managed to strike away doubts of his beauty. "I don't know. What am I supposed to say?"

"You've said enough."

Steve meant well; he would never hurt something that didn't deserve any hatred, never attack without solid rationale, but he did have logic to do so now. He had an up-close view of what your world was centered upon, concentric circles of filth and greed that were built on harming his people. He was too gentle to outrightly assert blame, condemn you for your actions when he knew that you could've easily traded him for your benefit.

But you didn't, and that made his choice so much harder.

"Come back to Earth with me."

"No."

There wasn't a lap of hesitation, no regrets, no turning back with an apology I'm-So-Sorry-For-Eating-Your-Friends-But-I'll-Try-Harder-Next-Time card with chocolates, no sympathy in the air between you. Well, no sympathy from you.

"Please. I could spare you. (Y/N), you saved me and you still are now! Don't limit your future."

"Spare me, sure, Captain Spangles and Shackles."

"I'm serious. You could live in the Tower with me and--"

"Become another Loki, wasting away behind locked doors. Sounds very inviting." You glared at him and swallowed, anger fuming up through you; your bed shook dangerously. It wasn't often that your powers were more prevalent than you, but this weeks-forthcoming trough of values was too thick to ignore, compressing you down unreservedly. You had been searching for an answer the entire time he'd been unchained, and hitherto there was no clear one. Now you were almost certain you couldn't find one at all.

"No, no." He was quieter, soothing. "Not like Loki. A guest, invited to stay... You could be an Avenger. Wanda used to be on the other side--"

"I'm not--" The pistachios began to roll around on the floor like marbles, whirls of sonorous rolling fueling your indignation. "--Wanda! Stop! That post on my bed is made of..."

"Shh, shh." Steve took a step forward, hands raised in capitulation.

"Bones. Bones from your... human... friends." You were speaking through gritted teeth, pulling back any regrets deep into the trenches of your ribs.

Steve took another step, now brushing against your front half. He coaxed you slowly into an embrace, sliding his hands into the curves of your sides and tenderly pressing your face to his neck. His unusual warmth steadied your heart rate, much more hearty than the dank, musty air of your land. Steve snugly fit into your grooves, moving slowly enough for you to move back if you wanted, still the every-cautious gentleman.

"I'm not sure of the answers. I'm sorry. This is just as confusing for me, and I'm the one with circular imprints on my wrists." He chuckled against the top of your hair.

"What if we have to fight?"

"I hope it won't come to that, doll. I don't want innocent lives harmed because of me."

Innocent lives... that was the first time you'd been referred to as 'clean' in any variation of the word. You lied, cheated, stole, yet for this man? This soft, robust man with a heart of gold and muscles of steel? You couldn't deceive him.

"Then don't let any be harmed. Save your people." You dug in closer, finding a notch mellow enough to nuzzle your face in, letting go of any grievances outside of Steve's firm chest.

"No, we can find a negotiation for this. No one has to perish, (Y/N)! Don't give up so easily. We can go talk to your ruler, establish a peace treaty, make panacea in both worlds. It's possible."

"Steve, this isn't your America, land of the free." You pushed back from him and sighed. He was too hopeful.

"I know."

"Do you really? Just leave. Conquer and destroy and save and wear your shiny, waxed metals with honor at what you had to do to save the Earth. Converse with hosts about your terrible kidnapping-- maybe add in a quip about how you were forced to stay here for some added sympathy-- and although the choice was hard, you knew deep down it was right. Finish off with a song about your beloved country, inspire the mortals, go back home. Go."

Steve's body stiffened. He held your eyes throughout your proposal with his own, not relenting in his efforts to save as many lives as possible. Gripping you closer, he shakily let out a breath.

"I've been here for two months. Two."

"Long enough time to figure out my ship passcode, right? The door is there."

"This isn't what I want! I don't know what you think of me, if I'm just another pet, but I can't leave you. I can't kill you, and I won't. There's no reason behind this fight!" He was angering quickly, fists tightening.

You tugged him towards the bed, keeping the embrace intact, and pulled him down on the side of you. He always slept on the floor, too chivalrous and shy to ask otherwise-- although you probably would have refused before this. Steve blushed and held you tighter, one arm straying to your waist and pressing down gently, just enough to give you thrills.

"Fine, Steve. Stay another night." You softly combed through his grown-out locks with one hand, trying your best to remember what it felt like. You didn't want to lose this memory, although you knew in a century or two it would probably be gone; tough luck.

"One more?" He stumbled on his words, visibly afraid and shivering. You pulled up the cloths by your feet around you both, making sure he was well covered.

"Yes." You leaned forward and brushed your forehead against his cheek gently. He purred.

"And then--"

"Home, Steve. Then you go back home and remember to forget."

He slid his legs closer to your, intertwining them so close there was no distinction between you. He breathed. Both of you were slipping into slumber gracefully, wishing for more time but also an escape, a place of more joyous things to overcome the sorrow enveloping you.

Steve smiled dejectedly, sadly, knowing there was no other way.

"I won't forget."


	5. Pretty Young Thing • Loki Laufeyson x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You just want some peace, some time to finish your favorite show, but a certain someone has other plans...

It was cold: gelid and freezing. You suspected Natasha had gone back and 'fixed' the thermostat again to her liking (which meant another layer of blankets for the rest of you). The winter in New York was already bad enough— this warranted an even more lazy, gloomy night of hot chocolate and lengthy Netflix shows, especially since you had downtime until your next mission.

The rest of the Avengers flitted through the cinema room arbitrarily throughout the evening, stopping by for a handful of popcorn or an episode, never staying too long. You actually had to kick Bruce out because you couldn't stand his nagging about the implausible hair color of the children ("Sorry, (Y/N), but according to Reginald Punnett's square of calculating genetic combinations, red hair simply couldn't be generated from the two parents, therefore infidelity must have occurred.").

As you were nearing the butter-smothered bottom of your bag, as well as the finale of Stranger Things, the temperature dropped even lower. You tightened your hold on the covers and grimaced, fully ready to attack whoever dared cause you more shivers, but turned to find Loki, dress suit a bit mishappen and a lip print of red extending from the left side of his lip to his chin. Sure as always, he was leaning casually against the doorway with an uninterested frown cemented on his face.

"If you're going to give me shit about my taste in movies, or the idea of televisions at all, please kindly go elsewhere and slit your throat, thanks."

Loki shrugged and snapped, your bucket refilling automatically, much better looking than it had even been initially. Had Loki even ever tasted popcorn?

"I was not planning on doing so."

You eyed him carefully, trying not to linger on the very obvious stain on his face. He passed, and you reluctantly decided to agree to his unspoken question.

After receiving your hesitant nod, he moved to sit beside you, only close enough to graze the fuzz of your warm shielding. He looked uncomfortable, eyes unable to linger on a point for more than a few moments.

"And what might that cretin be?"

"A demigorgon."

Loki considered that and leaned back a smidge of distance.

"You mean... There aren't demigorgons on Asgard?"

He made a rather unamused face and scoffed, apathy and superiority too high for faux monsters; he had no time left for this facade of innocence. However, he stayed put.

"Would Your Majesty care to partake in the snack of heated kernels?" You offered the bucket to him, barely budging your attention from the screen.

Loki didn't move.

"I guess not. Would you rather be called Your Highness? No: O' Supreme One, Stander Beyond Kneels, Anti-Subjugated Ruler of Subjugation with A Questionable Backstory and Gorgeous Perm, Lord of the Flies and Also Midgardians—"

"You're insufferable." A flit of annoyance visibly passed through him, jaw tightening and hands clenching and all the signals of a wrecked feeling; too bad. Eleven was more important.

"I try."

He curved to glance at you, drinking up every detail like a cocktail he couldn't have-- the calm before slaughter. Neither of you wanted to fight but quips only carried you to shallow waters.

"No comment on my mouth?" Loki tensed and lightly dusted his fingers across the blanket.

"Hah. No, I just assumed you got some."

"Some?"

"Mewling quim." It took quite a bit of self-restraint to not laugh at your obvious pun and allusion to his popular declaration, but you managed. However, his face colored— rage or embarrassment? You didn't know— and his normal demeanor crumbled in small fires of lip biting and fidgeting.

He made a 'come hither' motion with his fingers and the mark was gone, ruffled hair straightened, and clothing sorted again.

"I did not."

"Hmm." You were too engrossed in the show to retort— as well as a bit remorseful for your attitude. Just a bit; he had attempted to enslave you and your kind, after all. His looks and eloquence could only be a barrier to a thin extent, and from then you could only accept reform. He scoffed after you didn't elaborate further.

"Norns, (Y/N), I'd prefer to not parry this any further."

"Sure, Double-Unicorn."

He groaned and reached over, fingers hovering over the bucket. You offered it to him easily, but he simply sighed and encircled your hand instead.

"I did not associate with any woman. That was a foolish, jealous attempt to incite a reaction out of you, clearly a product of my blinded infatuation... This is sudden, and I do not mean to overwhelm you, but as an Avenger now I refuse to deny myself freedom. And deny myself you. I want to protect you."

His eyes wandered down to your lips, leaning closer, and you could feel the cold radiating off of him, the pure and unbridled power along with utter nervosity. For an attempted dictator of Earth, he was certainly shaking.

You sucked in air, pausing a moment to consider your options. He was a murderer, a 'villain' that you'd fought freedom from, someone you once thought you'd cause the demise of. You'd craved his death, and that was almost overpowering any other desires you were having. To decline him would be against your will, and undoubtedly cause you sadness, but an openhearted kiss and shmuck wouldn't encompass the situation well either.

"I do not intend to intrude. Although painful, I can understand if you choose to reject a monster such as—"

"A date first."

He smiled— so small you barely saw it— and squeezed your fingers.

"You're... I like you, (Y/N). I want to change, and I think being with you could help me be an— an Avenger. Please help me to learn and assimilate; I fear I will be the cause of another debacle."

You nodded slowly, returning to your previous position while keeping your fingers intact with his. The cold didn't bother you much with the warmth on your cheeks spreading all around.

"I will. But for now," you gestured to the frantic characters reaching the climax of the show, "Stranger Things, stranger."

Loki shuffled and twisted to view the television, a miniscule quirk creeping on his mouth as he indulged your request. Despite his bewilderment towards your fascination with fake characters, he remained still and merely enjoyed your company.


	6. Morals • Loki Laufeyson x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas isn't a tradition familiar with Asgardians, and Loki is no different; however, he is anything but predictable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is too late for Christmas 2017 oops

Even after the entire year you'd spent together, Loki had barely gained any recognition regarding the 'Midgardian culture'; you suspected it was because of his relaxed, prolonged style of learning things-- due to his very extensive lifespan-- yet you also knew he would be far less interested in such 'mortal matters' if it weren't for you. Loki flocked behind you most days, never far with a book in his hands and miniature half-smile on his face. He was much more amicable now, constantly surprising you with small kisses along your jawline, sneaking up on you making dinner and wrapping his arms around you, whispering small lines that made you squeak and swell with pride for the man that had reformed.

After the attack on New York, most of the Avengers could barely stand to look at him, Clint and Natasha the most spiteful of them all. Of course, you weren't too fond of him either, but you did believe in redemption, and he seemed to need it very much. So, with substantial help from Thor, you convinced Tony to allow Loki into his tower on 'probation', a light sentence that secretly held more weight than you divulged. Loki had resisted, clawing onto verbal insults of the team, that he'd rather be locked up than be coerced into living with them. Eventually, he had submitted to the inevitable after reminders of handcuffs from you and Frigga from Thor.

Naturally, he would stay with Thor for safekeeping, his own brother being the most friendly towards him, but Thor had his duties in Asgard that mostly prevailed. You were the next most prominent advocate for his quaint freedoms, so that task got assigned to you. You didn't mind; he was astute and still worthy of absolution despite Tony's groaning, someone you didn't know yet but had the time and patience to learn about.

He was prickly to start, cutting off any offers you had with savage looks and quips, only caring about the outside world enough to pick up the remote and watch the news occasionally. Other than that, he stayed inside his quarters with the books you brought him. It took an entire month before he could allow you to stay inside the same room as him, another two for him to even stomach the word 'friend', but you relented and allowed him time to cope. His transition from royalty to villain to 'guest' was quite troublesome for him-- his emotions never showed, but you could sense the waves of guilt and anger radiating off him easily-- and it was more than okay for him to grieve. There was a lot to get over. You stayed out of his denigrating-range, only stopping in every few hours when you could to bring a new cup of tea, a fresh book, or simply visit for the benefit of his mental release. The last one wasn't too popular with him, but the small lift in his shoulders or relaxed facial muscles told you otherwise.

With time, he grew more tolerating towards you, sometimes remarking on the latest book you'd given him or implicitly complimenting your cooking with snide comments. Your visits turned into conversations and then into hours of company, sometimes filled with philosophy and chatting or merely reading side-by-side silently, peaceful and comfortable. It wasn't too hard to spot your growing affections for each other, the natural progression seeming something akin to fate.

He'd given you a gathering of flowers wrapped with a silver ribbon, a tradition in Asgard that he wouldn't tell you what for, but the blush on Thor's face when he found out was redeeming enough. A week later, you'd confronted him with a particularly saccharine rom-com, ending the night with a kiss and promise of more.

The transition from 'Kneel Down, Mortals!' to gentle, normal civilian was quite rough, and at times more than frustrating when he couldn't keep up with Midgardian ways. Easter had nearly destroyed his will of leaving the tower, insisting that a fake bunny that was propaganda for deceit should not be an excuse to consume sweets. You knew he would be much more content if you allowed him to sulk in his room again during the week of Christmas, but also acknowledged that he needed to be immersed in the holiday season, for his benefit and others'. Loki was a very precarious, uncertain character that change would be helpful to; despite the certain grumbling you would receive, it was imperative for his new life and attitude to be active in the Avengers' events. And you wanted to see him with a Santa hat on.

Loki deftly flipped the page of his latest book, scowling at the image that greeted him. His jaw clenched and he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, thinking through his sure interrogation.

You'd given him the book as an early Christmas present, hoping for him to be a bit more acquainted with the holiday before the traditions began, but he didn't seem merry at all.

"This corpulent man could never fit in the confines of a smokestack, even less so on the journey out. I do not believe he arrives at all; the only culprits of placing gifts under the tree could be the parents, given that the children are far too innocent and vacuous for such duplicity and no criminal could visit every house in one night period. Is this an unspoken rule for parents to inherently lie to their offspring for no apparent reason? Answer me, pet." Loki snapped to your disheartened sigh, raising a brow and sticking his index finger in the book as he tucked in underneath his arm.

"Yes, Loki, it's the parents that plant the presents."

To your surprise, he only grinned in response.

"Interesting."

"Oh? No comments on the mutiny, the treachery, the miserable intelligence of the entirety of the human race?"

He shrugged and leaned in, quickly pressing a kiss to your nose.

"Is this not what you desired, darling?" He definitely knew the right words to say to make you forget about your worries. His avoidance of slandering on the easily-libeled subject was jarring and made you a bit suspicious, but nothing you wouldn't put past the God of Mischief. Most likely, he had already schemed a heinous plan in the past minute, some grandiose endeavor to demarcate his detestation towards the holiday. Mischief was his specialty, and you could tell from the quirk of his mouth and upward strike of his brows that this would be an exceptional escapade-- no better way to end the year. Contemplating what he could possibly be conspiring, you wrapped an arm around his shoulders and tipped against him, head resting in the dip of his neck comfortably. He was angular to a degree that was occasionally disagreeable, but the refuge and security you found in his hold were always worth it.

Loki grumbled against you, pleased, and leaned against the sofa back, adoringly studying your sleeping face and committing it to his memory.

//

"What-- what is this, Loki?" You smiled and shook it, stopping when his cool fingers covered yours warningly.

"A present."

"I didn't know we were exchanging presents right now? I'll just go and grab--"

"I do not care. Open it." He kissed your temple and released his grip on your hand.

The gift obviously meant something special to him, wrapped up in thin silver tulle and green paper patterned with miniature stars. It felt heavy in your hand despite the small mass.

"Okay..." You unwrapped the paper, neatly depositing it in the bin nearby you, and gently lifted out the item: a thick, hardcover book reading 'The Tempest' in permed gold cursive. Sheer depictions of undulating waves and tall, cowering boats floated among the thick cover, grafting around to the back.

"Have you read it, darling?"

"I have not... Was this yours?" You smiled at him, carefully opening the cover and admiring the detailing.

"Yes, Frigga bestowed me this copy as a gift commemorating my tenth birthday. She always encouraged my affinity for reading, and Midgardian books were a rarity on Asgard. Forgive me if I am mistaken, but this book appeared to be of your caliber."

You stilled and stepped closer to him, touching his hair lightly with grace. Loki never outright spoke his feelings, but if you were correctly deciphering the connotations of his vocabulary, it would seem he cared more for you than he admitted. He didn't like to speak about his past much, but you knew Frigga was very dear to him; to present you with something she gave him was a great honor.

"Loki... I can't take this from you, sweet. Thank you, really, but I know she--"

"My Queen. When Frigga gave me this, she told me I would find someone even worthier to accord with-- I could not fathom her wisdom at the time, but the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about love... I see that in you." Loki closed your hand firmly over the binding and brought his arms around your shoulders slowly, his face buried in your hair.

"I love you too, Loki." You affirmed and blushed under his arms, reciprocating his embrace gleefully. "And I'm sorry for doubting you."

He only chuckled deeply in response-- making you question if he had telepathic abilities yet again-- and hugged you tighter. All was content with you two, the Christmas tree scent in the air, and the red-and-green silk surrounding the walls around you.

"Happy holidays, my beloved."


	7. The Woe Duo • Natasha Romanov x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by @Queen_Of_Chains
> 
> 'Hey! Incredible work!  
> Could I request you one where the reader and Natasha are in love with each other, and the team knows that and tired of feel the tension between them, the team make something to put them together. With super fluff end?  
> I hope you can. Thanks!<3'

“Was that… the last of the cheese?” You stride into the kitchen with a playful scowl, casually sliding up to Natasha and eyeing her sandwich. It wasn’t uncommon for ceaseless banter between the two of you; it was the foundation of your friendship and why you suspected you had such a strong bond. During missions, it even proved to aid in your success; a simple ‘no scope needed’ or ‘(Y/N)- 50, Nat- 43’ in your ongoing elimination gag served to cheer up the team pricelessly. Your natural repartee even had Tony jealous.

“Oh.” She edged her elbow into your side quietly, “I suppose it was. My humblest apologies, (Y/N).” Free curls were left to teem along her shoulders, draping onto the non-assassin suit she was wearing (it was always a blessing to see her on off-days) which was replaced with a loose black ¾ sleeved blouse and charcoal slacks that shaped her calves perfectly.

You grinned and leaned your back against the counter, crossing your arms neatly as you tried your hardest to maintain eye contact with her instead out breaking into laughter. You hadn’t even intended to eat-- only grab a glass of water for your workout-- but your ribbing with Natasha always distracted you from whatever you originally meant to accomplish. It hampered you, but you would never willingly give up your link with her, even if you knew it could easily transpire into something more if you wanted to risk it.

“Thank you sincerely. However, I’d feel a lot better if you would consider maybe… sharing that delectable slice with me.” You steadied your stance and tipped towards her, grin growing as both of your breathing patterns were starting to unravel just a bit. It took quite a lot of practice and skill to make an assassin unsteady; you were proud.

“Such a parlous offer. I wonder if I could possibly spare the goods?” She raised a brow and tilted so that the curls now spread widely across her neck, twisting around and around and nearly scraping your chin. Maybe she was the true Scarlet Witch. With her precarious eyes, risky manner of temptation, crests of deliberate measures that frazzled even enemy soldiers-- you knew she had been trained to be so purposive with her actions, but it was a part of her that was very prominent and attracted much of your attention.

You shrugged, as if not at all bothered by her insinuations-- that of a cat to its collar-- and angled your head so your lashes nearly obscured your pupils; a trick of a temptress you’d learnt from your training. Quite handy, if her slight scowl counted.

“Hmm, so meticulous, lisichka.” A google-search for popular Russian pet names hadn’t failed you if her face was any indicator.

“But of course, solnishko.” She smirked as if she knew how much you loved it when she spoke in her native language. “I must be careful.” She was so close now, a few inches away…  
“So. You, uh, finally got-- I mean, congratulations, right? Sorry. I’ll just-- I wanted some pizza, but you, uh--” Steve stumbled in on you, red-faced and sheepishly backing out now. Poor guy couldn’t handle such levels of intimacy, whether they were jokes or not.

“Stevie can’t handle some affection?” You ghosted your hand up Natasha’s arm and watched him shiver for a reaction.

“I--” He stuttered and blushed, trying to avert his gaze anywhere but the pair of you. “But kudos to you for finally, eh, gettin’-- Buck!”

Glaring and managing to look as if he was sharpening a knife although only holding a book, Bucky sauntered in and stood next to Steve, the two Dads attempting to figure out what was transpiring. It wasn’t unusual to find you and Nat while acting out some elaborate lark, though not usually in this less platonic manner. Bucky was still warming up to you, although you believed he considered you to at least possess the potential to be his friend.  
Natasha eased around you and slowly slid her grip from you, forming back into the upright position she had been in. She gazed passively as if not at all containing the natural human reactions to embarrassment, fluidly pressing together her sandwich slices and stalking off-- after a sly nod to you, of course.  
“And may I ask-- congratulations for what, Grandpa?” You had an inkling of his implication, but wouldn’t outright say it. Unlike Natasha, you dared to express emotions other than seduction.  
Bucky briefly closed his lids, annoyed.  
“Jus’ thought something else was happenin’.”  
“Mhm.”  
They weren’t lying-- you would be able to discern that, as well as the telltale crinkle of Steve’s innocent nose-- but you knew they were either too sheepish to outwardly question you, or something else entirely.  
“Nothing to see here, boys.” You winked. “Need some help with the microwave, Steve?”  
He blushed.  
“No- No, thank you.”  
Shrugging, you plucked a water bottle from the upper cabinet and left them to be bewildered. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t seen more unusual things in the Tower.  
//  
“Lady/Sir (Y/N)!” A booming voice pounced around your doors, seeping into the room and even passing your ‘soundproof’ earbuds. Thor, no doubt.  
“Yes, Goldilocks?”  
“Sir Stark requests your presence in his party! Downstairs! I shall bring some Asgardian mead!”  
You involuntarily shivered, still recovering from the last time he had done such. Tony had still never fixed that window. Feeling a brief moment of interest, you removed the barriers and sat up.  
“What for? Another early birthday party for him?”  
“I--” Thor faltered. “Yes, of course! Another celebration of his day of birth! Come join us!”  
Suspicious, definitely. You trusted Thor more than almost anyone-- he was quite literally a giant teddy bear with lightning powers-- but he couldn’t lie very well, and that was apparent. Maybe Tony was planning another party for you (he still hadn’t figured out your birthday) or… Well, you didn’t see much reason for him to lie about a party. Booze, music, and thinly veiled women were his sole addictions, and you couldn’t recall any discrepancies they had with his parties.  
“Sure, big guy. Just a second.” You chuckled as his heavy stepped sounded off, collecting yourself quickly and changing into a compact but fairly unshowy dress/suit; you weren’t in the mood to be hit on by drunkards. Adding on a couple of lazy accessories and cleaning up your hair, you were off to the elevator and awaiting arrival to the festivity. The music was certainly loud enough.  
You tapped your foot impatiently, already feeling a headache appearing; only a couple hours before you could leave. Just a few appearances, thin smiles, shots of whatever expensive brain-fuzzer was available before departing from the crowd. There was always someone to converse with, a new hand to shake, but tonight just wasn’t shining quite the way you wished. After the ordeal with Natasha… you would prefer to be alone and not see her shoulder held by someone else as they danced, her easy, desirable beam that drew every man in. You had a jealous streak in you that would rather be sentient and peaceful, and you intended to realize that goal.  
The elevator chimed, effectively drawing you out of your unlikely imagination, but what concerned you more was the lack of people. You looked around, scoping out the place, but it was just an ordinary party… minus everybody else except for the Avengers.  
“Tony?” You peered around the bar to find him mixing something up, the alcohol still very strong from where you were standing. Something lemony, too.  
“Killjoy Corner is in the back. Turn around, to the left, right next to the mushrooms.” He barely glanced at you over the sloshing liquid, and you were nearly certain he was already a couple drinks into his self-pity evening.  
You frowned and sat down on one of the stools.  
“Okay, okay. A shot of… B-52, please.”  
He sniggered and nodded, reaching for the bottles after pausing for a moment to admire your outfit. Tony wasn’t ashamed in his gazing, but you were used to it.  
“A little bit of extra liquor for the madam/lad. Enjoy. Oh, Greenie, you’re looking a little colorful today. What’ll it be? The usual, I assume-- water with a hint of lemon!” He gasped. “Or maybe even… orange.”  
“Just water.”  
Tony responded with something equally as sarcastic as his previous digs, but you didn’t hear exactly what; Natasha had just walked in, and she looked stunning-- you were barely holding onto your shot glass anymore. Fitted with a tight, tight black low-cut, barely-over-the-shoulder dress, curls pulled to the side, small ruffles cascading down to her mid-thigh and revealing toned legs ending with a pointed black heel, you were quite sure she was dressed to kill. If drop-dead gorgeous was an entity, you were sure it was her, and not just the outfit: her entire vibe was mysterious, intriguing, making you wish you were the one walking next to her but knowing you never would be. Every last Avenger had momentarily stopped to look, most clearing their throat and returning to whatever activity they had been doing, albeit more distractedly.  
She strolled to the bar effortlessly, taking a seat next to you, but you hardly realized-- too engrossed in her kohl-liner to notice-- until she was rubbing up against your shoulder.  
“You good, darling?”  
“Yeah, I-- I’m fine, you know, just off from work. Relaxing.” You slammed your head back and downed the shot, bitterly smiling as you let yourself slip into the fantasy you usually did around her-- anything but the truth. “5 year and a 4 year, can’t get enough time for myself. Always back-and-forth, whose turn it is for the doll-- curse of a parent, I suppose. Love them, of course.” Lies. All lies and she knew it, but it was just a ‘game’, a way to forget about your responsibilities for a bit. With your jobs, you couldn’t very well be blamed, but that wasn’t your motivation. Her smile was.  
She sipped her glass, looking at you from behind it with a set of her eyes that only meant mischief.  
“If I may, you’re the real doll.” Her voice was dark and thickened with alcohol, too physical and tangible for you to pretend anymore; you must’ve made a face, for she ticked her jaw and set the glass down gently.  
“Sorry. A wife, then? Must be beautiful.”  
You nodded and let your vision fill the room, catching anything you could to avoid her disheartened features. It was only pretend, anyway.  
“She’s the most ravishing woman I’ve ever seen. And you?”  
Natasha didn’t move her line of sight at all while picking up her glass again and lifting it up harshly, staring into the centre of your eyes whilst finishing it all off. Damn, she was seductive.  
“Right. Well then, I have a great therapist I can recommend, she--”  
“Tony.” Bruce cut in, shaking his head.  
“Science Bro.” Tony quirked his mouth and mocked him, shaking his head back. “You two, out of my bar with this nonsense. Go get some of the cake out the fridge, whatever. Spirits obviously aren’t your thing.” He waited for a moment while you both sat still, motioning you off with his hand. “I’m Iron Man, honey, my time is precious. There goes another bill. Not a Cherry Hater, if you were wondering.”  
Without a glance to Natasha, you sighed and moved to leave, halfway to the elevator before she joined you wordlessly. Stepping in, you pressed the button to the kitchen and watched through the decreasing slit as Steve angrily walked over to Tony, splotchy and apparently angry. Faintly, Tony made a remark about his supposed ‘disability to become livid’. Unsurprisingly, Bucky was soon by Steve’s side, and then the doors closed.  
Her perfume was intoxicating, spreading throughout the small space easily, and you wished you were a couple in a movie, arms wrapped around each other and fervently kissing as if it were your last wish until the next level. You wanted something more concrete, more intimate than you already had-- you loved her.  
Natasha was staring determinedly at the doors, looking like she was about to say something until the elevator halted and shook for a second. Immediately, she switched from Party-Goer to Black-Widow, crossing in front of you protectively and analyzing the controls. She ran a hand along the door seal, tapped some button, and ultimately leaned back, still safeguarding you.  
“JARVIS, why are we stopped?” She poked one of the lights and scowled.  
“Temporary malfunctions have occurred. Your destination will be reached shortly.”  
You huffed and moved to be beside her.  
“Did you stop the elevator?”  
“I have no power nor inclination to sabotage affiliates of Mr. Stark, a genius, playboy, billionaire, and philanthropist.” Its voice was grating on your ears and you put a hand on the railing, leaning against it.  
“Okay, JARVIS, just fix it ASAP.”  
“I will run more diagnostics.” It clicked off and left you alone with Natasha, both fancied up and a bit gloomy. Definitely not an ideal situation.  
She moved to stand next to you.  
“The Woe Duo!” Tony’s energetic, cheery voice appeared. “Enjoying your ride?”  
“Is this about the time we called Loki ‘Reindeer Games’ before you had the chance to? Sorry, not sorry.”  
“No.” His voice crackled and got more distant. “Steve-- I am not! You told me to! Okay, I don't really care if--”  
You finally glanced at Natasha, who was pursing her lips and tracing a nail along her bracelet, probably imagining how to use it as a knife after she got out.  
“I’m back! Apologies for the delay. Cap’N Crunch can get quite soggy. Anyway, I don’t know what metaphors young people use now, but get those cherry blossoms falling!”  
And then he was gone. Quickly and abruptly as if he was never there, a burst of red flames with his stubborn will that was now extinguished. You weren’t quite sure what to do with the leftover ash.  
“Sorry if I made you uncomfortable… I can get caught up in the make-believe world sometimes and forget about others.”  
It was inviting, welcoming from the despair you felt when you looked at her, the pain after the happiness-- a cyclical nature you only ever tried to ignore.  
“I don’t mind.” She stepped a tad closer and halted as if reconsidering her next choice of words. Her dress was slightly shifted and exposing one of her collarbones, but she didn’t seem keen to fix it. Natasha breathed in deeply and collected herself. “Если бы ты сказала, что будешь моей, я прекратил бы ругаться всю оставшуюся жизнь.”  
You raised an eyebrow and mentally questioned her. Why speak Russian now? You obviously didn’t understand, and she rarely used it in non-practical scenarios. Was she abashed?  
“Мне кажется, я в тебя влюбился.” Natasha was almost… smiling?  
“Nat. I don’t know…”  
She frowned and became more rigid, sinking back into her Black Widow persona.  
“He wants us to make fools of ourselves. Tony, let people be themselves. I gave you something to be giddy over, Stark.” She was pissed, to say the least-- she could handle her emotions very well, but you had been around her long enough to both decipher and be allowed to see her more vulnerable chinks in her armor. More specifically, the chainmail over her heart.  
“I don’t think this was just Tony… Steve was also there.” You thought back to earlier, how he had happily offered congratulations, how Tony was peeved at you two pretending to be strangers. Knowing the team, Cap’s passion for relationships, Tony’s ‘secret’ care for his teammates, Clint’s wishes for Natasha to be happy, and all of the other member’s love for you-- it was simple, really, and by the increasingly more irritated look on Natasha’s face, she knew it as well.  
“Nat. It’s alright.”  
She glared at you, sending shivers down your spine. You weren’t accustomed to being on the receiving end of her fury. Almost instantaneously, she repealed the nasty look and looked nearly sorry, returning to her hatred towards Tony.  
“I like you.”  
She paused and dropped her harsh eyebrows, softening up immediately.  
“What?”  
“I mean, like, like. Probably more. Hell, we’re not getting out of here until I say something, so I might as well, right? I’ve hated just succumbing to being friends, and I wish I was more real towards you, but… I guess this is for the better, saves me sadness. Well, I mean, depending on your response.”  
Natasha stared and stared… and then grinned. She engulfed you in a hug so impassioned you were surprised it was coming from her. Her arms slid from your shoulders to your waist, nose up against your neck snugly. It was much more burning than all of your other hugs; you could already feel the vexation being pulled away from both of you with just a touch. You pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead and made an excited noise, having trouble believing this wasn’t just another one of your fantasies.  
“If you said you would be my woman I would give up swearing for the rest of my life.”  
“Mm.” You made a muffled noise whilst kissing her head somewhere between an acknowledgment and a question.  
“That’s what I said in Russian.”  
“Mm.” You returned to her face and peppered her cheek with tiny kisses, grabbing as much of the moment as you could. “What else?”  
She colored and tightened her grip on you, diving back into the nook of your neck before responding.  
“I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”  
You could feel every strain of tension fall from your body; Natasha Romanov was in love with you? The most beautiful, graceful, elegant woman you’d ever met-- the woman you couldn’t bear to ever leave-- was reciprocating your feelings? It was a dream.  
Except it was real.  
You were about to reply equally as heartfelt when the elevator started moving again… back to where you had begun. The doors swung open to reveal a gang of flushed, heart-eyed, sighing superheroes who were in a round of ‘I-told-you-so’s and ‘cutest Avenger couple ever’s. Thor was crying.  
Natasha returned to her secure, apathetic disposition, an arm around you as she stalked up to Tony with a dangerous look in her eye, but you impeded her with a quick kiss on the lips. Smiling, you pulled back to see her just as flustered.  
“It’s okay. We’re together now.”


	8. Roadrunner's Calm • Pietro Maximoff x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro has trouble slowing down, but he'd do it all for you...

“What’ll it be tonight?” Pietro huddled next to you on your balcony, sparkling with rapid impulses and enthusiasm. Date nights always excited him.

“Chinese, Indian, Italian, Japanese, French, Mexican-- the place I went last time was really good right?-- Greek, German, classic American-- not McDonald's, like killer BLT or pasta or something-- or--” He started bouncing on the pads of his feet, eyes jumping from rooftop to rooftop.

“All of that sounds good, Piet. Whatever you’d like.”

He always attempted to give you the choice, but it made you feel greedy at times; last week had been your pick and it only seemed natural to let him choose. You knew he was partial to French, mostly because of the beautiful sights he managed to catch while getting the food.

“Really?”

You kissed his cheek.

“Of course, love.”

Pietro flushed and nodded, tapping his fingers against the railing in preparation. He fluffed his hair and slid his goggles over his eyes, flashing a salute to you.

“Be back in a jiff.”

You smiled and watched as he zoomed off, a flash disappearing into the horizon among the stars, moon, and golden lights in the distance, a lone stripe of passion. The chilly air besieged you without his heat, making you lightly shiver and pull your blanket tighter around you, breathing out just to see the white puff that followed. As you sunk further into the warm clutches of your shelter, trembly arms wrapped around you and presented you with two white bowls of ramen and a box of macarons. It wasn’t hard to imagine the Cheshire Cat grin pressed against your neck.

“Teriyaki, your favorite.” His breathing was unsteady.

“Thank you, Firecracker.”

Pietro chuckled and supported you in his arms, turning you around to face him and sit cross-legged on the now-pillow-covered ground. He always managed to surprise you; it was actually a bit off-putting that you couldn’t sense him throwing pillows beneath you.

“Sorry we haven’t been able to meet lately, I know it’s tough, but with Ultron and SHIELD and the world about to collapse and the robots and everything,” He looked at your face and breathed in deeply, calming himself, “I couldn’t leave soon enough. I don’t know when the next mission or fight or anything is, so I-- I--”

“Do you want to stay here?”

He beamed and slurped down his noodles quickly.

“Yes, yes!” His accent shone through like it does when he becomes excited. “I’d love that. Netflix and popcorn?”

By now, he was done with the ramen and onto the macarons, meticulously untying the ribbon and sliding off the lid. Pietro offered the box to you first, you taking a dark chocolate one, then took his. Macarons were his favorite because he utilized time to savor them, carefully biting down to fully appreciate the texture. Little things that allowed him to relax, slow down, and chill were dearest to him (you being the utmost contender on that list).

“Hmm,” you pretended to consider this, “Maybe. Last time I tried to get you to watch Poltergeist with me, you couldn’t get past the introduction.”

“I get bored easily.” He frowned, done with the macarons and drumming his fingers against your calf, sporadically drawing shapes so fast they felt like lines. His fingers were cold.

“I’m only joking, Pietro. But maybe you pick the movie this time?”

“I have heard of this one American movie that is really good-- Frozen, is it?-- about a Queen of ice and snow! It is supposedly very brilliant with antsy people because it has lots of songs! Have you seen it?”

He seemed so genuine, you tried not to laugh-- you failed, though.

“Frozen! Yeah, okay, let’s watch that. I’m sure you’ll love it, baby.”

Pietro was very bewildered towards your reaction but scooped you up towards the living room to watch the movie nonetheless.

//

Hans stepped out of the billowing smoke, stalking towards Ana with a fist and cruel taunt. Kristoff was yelling for Ana, desperate to find her, but the snow in the air was too thick to see; Ana was trapped with her wicked ex-fiancée and freezing heart, nearing death with every second. You were both enraptured in the movie, pressing against each other so close you could feel his supersonic heartbeat.

The snacks were long forgotten and pushed to the edge of the cushions, replaced by an unfulfilled passion for children’s movies. You had laughed before, but it must’ve been Pietro’s newfound obsession with Frozen that had rubbed off on you.

“The icy monster should not be allowed to be there.” He mumbled, clearly distraught and frustrated at the characters, likely imagining if Ana had been you. His protectiveness was adorable.

“I know, Roadrunner.”

He muttered something in Russian when Hans drew out his sword, hand automatically tightening around your waist. You snuggled closer and smiled, watching the ending unfold; Ana was frozen, but Elsa’s true love for her sister melted the ice. As Ana pushed Hans off of the boat, a gigantic smile broke way onto Pietro’s face, effectively warming you.

“My love…” He faced you, backlit by the ending credits. “That was a splendid movie.”

You smiled back and kissed his cheek.

“Indeed it was.”


	9. Tethered • Bruce Banner x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shoot for the moon. If you miss, you'll float alone in space forever...

A shirt, sweatpants, earbuds, and a wallet-- you’d be gone forever, not able afford anything that could impede you. They had been hurriedly tucked into a satin, thrifted purse just seconds ago, stolen from their righteous places to better accommodate you. Their years of expertise and comfortability in your small room would no longer matter; new sights and fresher lives would be offered to them. They didn’t exactly have a choice.

Bruce sat on the other side of the bed, not able to take his eyes off of your fast-paced hands. He was still determined to change you, change your mind. As if a puppy, curly fur and hearty eyes, he sighed and trembled slightly, taking any route he could to deter you.

“To hold you would be my greatest weakness.” He tried, pawing at the blankets and frowning deeper as you added in a toothbrush. He couldn’t lose you, not now; he would never be the same. It was his heart, so small and guarded, that now ached with a call for him to act. Could he ever do anything differently? You were his sun and moon, the morning smiles while brewing tea, quirky glances over research articles, cold feet in the middle of the night he never thought he would miss. But he did, and he would give his career, his everything, to make you realize he only needed your rays. Sunshine and happy days for a few more dawns.

“I would give you the world, Bruce, I still would. My everything.” You shrugged and crossed the room to pick up a small pair of socks. “But you’d give it right back.”

He smiled sadly and nodded, a small line of clear distortion marking his eyes from his skin.

“I couldn’t grow without the Sun. Humans would perish-- they’re too dependent.”

You zipped up the bag and bit your lip, memorizing each particle of him. The tie, the purple, the sweet melody you looked forward to each break, each night, and each morning. But you would move on.

“Yet humans would be able to find a way. Earth was hit by a comet… and here I walk.”

“Don’t run. Please. Not out the door, not-- not anywhere but me.” His voice was beginning to break into varying pitches of sadness, an astronaut realizing his rope was too far floated. You were stuck at the space station, crawling into your pod and moving away from him slowly, a regretting demeanor but no move to the lever. Only inching away, the other direction, stars ahead of you and comets lighting your trails of fuel. Things were bursting all around you, simultaneously, a combustion of gas and life and abiotic dust; you had to discover other things. The rope tether was too provincial for you, and although he couldn’t turn to see, another station was in the distance. He would, inevitably, collide.

“You would contain me so small?”

“No. Never. Just-- just-- just love you, cherish you, try not to burn. I need you.” He was fixated on the zipper clip, the small gold dangle nearly taunting him, paces away now. What when he ran out of food? The water broke? A tear in the wall that would sabotage the oxygen? To willingly let you go was to give up on his entire life’s mission and be left in space forever.

You stilled and tilted your head, knowing that that space was exactly what you needed.

“Put on gloves to touch a fire and it’s just another barrier. Burn me. I burn you. Aren’t you tired of the flames? I-- I don’t want this anymore, darling. Call me your gasoline, you’re the lighter. Pronounce me a spark and you’re the log. Let me go.”

He recoiled and choked up, gulping any bouts of air he could. It wasn’t uncommon for you to speak in metaphors, for him to refer to you as his rose, his lifeline-- figurative language was just another quirk of both of your highly intelligent minds. You synergized so well; it wasn’t a moot point he was making. You knew the consequences. It wasn’t a far-off rocket that you couldn’t see; no, it was clear. Crystal clear, free of dirt, only shined upon by the stars, but it wasn’t what you wanted. It wasn’t freedom.

“I don’t-- never-- I haven’t ever wanted to inhibit you. Really. (Y/N), I don’t want you to impede yourself for freedom that you already have, I’ll respect your decisions, of course, but darling…”

“Bridle me.” You seethe.

“I love you.” The resignation was very evident in his eyes, but so was hope. Determination and belief that you would return eventually, spend another lifetime in his arms, still be there to rub his shoulder after a Code Green. He thought you were soulmates. And maybe you did too, but you couldn’t stay, and he couldn’t fathom that.

You knew he was a scientist. Obviously. He added and divided and studied until that was all he did, but you were smart enough to know your relationship couldn’t be analyzed. It was too dependent, too emotional, and not able to be summed up into levels of dopamine as he wished. A likes B, so by all laws of motion, A will continue to like B until another force comes into play. Newton or something.

But you weren’t volumes of chemicals. He wasn’t an omniscient mathematician. You were two jarred people that relied on each other for too long; another day of cuddles in his lab and daily dinner walks would kill you. Bruce couldn’t understand that.

“I love you too, Bruce, and I always will. But never again.” You tried so hard to knock the leveling in your voice out of reach, but he picked up on it as always, still with that loathsome anticipation in his eyes.

You weren’t a cruel monster. You weren’t a mean witch. You weren’t anything in particular anymore.

It wasn’t your intention to break him-- your words rang true-- but the pity still gathered. It pooled in your stomach, a sharp pain, and you had to turn to the door, hand on it to confirm your decision. One that couldn’t be changed no matter his muffled snivels.

“I wouldn’t give anything for another night. And, Bruce…” You still couldn’t bear to look at him. “When it really matters, you wouldn’t either. Take care of yourself.”

Not your best parting words, but you couldn’t focus on that now. Just the hallway, the door, and the streets. If you looked back to the tower, you’d see that Bruce wasn’t pressed up against a window as all movies would have indicated.

Undeniably.

You were always just a shooting star.


	10. Smaller Agent • Natasha Romanov x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by @Ellie
> 
> 'Can you do Natasha x reader where like in AOU where Clint had a secret family but instead be Natasha with her wife and a little boy and just be really fluffy?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awww Clint with a lil godchild ♡
> 
> I don't typically write family-oriented stories buuuuuut Natasha deserves it

“The Black Room.”

“No.”

“The Green Room.”

“No.”

“The… Blue-Striped Room?”

“I will not hesitate to kick you off of this plane and let the suit take you. We are not going to a torture room, Tony.”

“Fine, fine, Marx. But I think I have the right to know where you have programmed my aircraft to fly-- a very extortionate transport--”

“A safe place.” She grimaced and nodded curtly, grip tightening on the aircraft’s controls. “Somewhere Ultron can’t find us nor the world for the moment. It’s not exactly a SHIELD undercover facility, but the team can rest there. For a bit.”

Natasha focused back on the plane’s tilting, keeping it upright and gliding through the clouds. In the next room, Steve and Bruce were asleep, Clint too alert after the last mission to do anything but pace. A soft, constant hum of electricity and engines circulated around the hangar, roaming around endlessly among steel walls and charcoal platings. Normally there would be a quiet beat of chatter surrounding her, just enough to prickle her skin, but the day was too dim for that. Even the skies around them knew enough to gray themselves down, smoke out into thick lines of condensation, reflecting the somber mood the Avengers encompassed.

“And what exactly deters us from being spotted?”

Natasha allowed herself a small smile.

“Home.”

//

It wasn’t often that she was able to return home-- missions and training were too large a part of her life and she often felt guilty and undeserving of the sanctuary she called her life. Of course, her condolences and self-deprecations were always met with hushed water, calming down the fire that burned; she always was returned to her natural state after that. To the team she was just an assassin-- and at times she merely felt that-- but her family was something she’d worked hard to attain, for the sake of both (now three) members that had needed grounding. Natasha’s first choice to land wasn’t in her private enjoyment, but there was nowhere else safe; she knew her family would understand, though they shouldn’t have to. She tried to keep them as separate as possible from the fighting that consumed her, and she knew integrating her two worlds wouldn’t be quick or neat, but she could only ask for forgiveness.

Mellow shutters ran across the rooftop and golden shingles on the side, rain gutters lining the edges of the cottage like vices protecting the small haven. It was quaint and unassuming, something she’d never have chosen by herself nor be expected to choose, but it was what she needed. A whimsical, old-fashioned building nestled only between miles of woods and modest, far-off farmers for neighbors. Buried in the countryside, away from urban life but close enough for comfort; she always loved coming home. Not just for the house but for her beautiful kin, her sweetness and softly lapping rivers that healed all wounds.

Clint gently smiled at her as he expertly stepped off the aircraft, providing reassurance of her hesitant decision, and weaved between the trees cautiously. He knew his way to the house-- sniper senses, he’d told her-- even from the mile away that she’d parked the flying vessel. She could never be safe enough with her family nearby.

Tony followed, then Steve, and with the rest of the Avengers, they ambled after Clint, taking turns in questioningly peering around the heavy foliage. Natasha anchored the motley group [of superheroes] and closed the ramp, sighing as she was once more attacked by the unpretentious aroma of pine needles and light smoke that signaled the trouble’s end. However, now she was not there for love; only refuge.

“C’mon, boys. Can’t walk any faster?” She threw out a comment to get moving; she was anxious and anticipating their arrival. It was more than a fact that she would finally feel secure again in her mere cottage, held in the arms of her beloved. It would be bliss in just a few more hundred feet, crunching footsteps on top of the leaves, sloshing, torn fabric catching on branches. As they traveled, a quiet peace settled among them, adrenaline finally settling down (save the couple of remarks Tony couldn’t resist biting).

She was near debating him over the productivity of Russia when the tops of the shingles were visible, radiant under the midday sun, peeking out just for her. Speeding up and taking every advantage of her long legs, she approached a run to the one place that would help. Home.

“Clint.” She nodded as she passed and he did the same, knowingly smiling at her and motioning for her to continue. He’d take care that the pack arrived safely through the decreasing yards.

Time raced her to the finish line-- a yellow-laced wood door, light and adorned with a slightly out-of-place intricate lock system, sunlit handle waiting for her to open and enter the threshold. Focusing on the unsullied window linings and breathing in, her hand on the keys, she could recount the day she carried her darling through the door, insisting on supporting her until they reached the bedroom and rid themselves of all white purity. Back then, she had made a promise to herself to always love and cherish her angel every day no matter where she was; she would return home despite any and all hindrances to treat her wife right.

The metal slid easily with her hand, opening to the smell of potatoes and vegetable soup, a meal that always warmed her heart-- but only when enjoyed next to (Y/N). No food was ever the same without her anymore.

“Treasure? (Y/N)?” She called out, knowing much better than to surprise a woman whose immediate reaction was to grip the nearest knife. Or dagger, or sword, really-- she was a multitude of talents that now stood in the kitchen, hair pulled back messily, bedecked by a red apron and ladle in her hand, her smile growing larger as she turned around. Immediately the fare was forgotten and the woman was wrapped in Natasha’s arms, snug in her muscled body. Natasha closed her eyes briefly and sunk into the warmth, murmuring softly into her wife’s hair.

“Where’s Bart?”

“Getting his crayons. Wanted to draw a picture for you.” (Y/N) responded, still relishing in the blaze of her consort, raking her fingers along Natasha’s stiff back until the knots lessened and she sighed. It was as close to perfect as she could ever have.

“I love you, fire, I love you.”

As she moved to kiss her wife’s cheek, Bart tumbled back into the room, some drawing supplies in hand and cheeks reddened from the effort to retrieve them. His brown curls bounced along as he lumbered over to the table, stumbling a bit and asking Mommy to help him with the chair-- until he looked up and saw Mom as well.

Natasha broke away from the close embrace, still keeping her arm firmly linked with (Y/N)’s, and bent down to receive a mammoth hug from her son, tucking his head next to yours with a little bit of a quivering lip. He had grown so much since she’d last been home, now walking almost completely on his own.

“Mom.”

“Baby.” She tugged him closer to her, breathing in the provincial familiarity that she had missed so dearly. “You’ve gotten so much bigger.” Natasha lifted him up into her arms and leaned into (Y/N)’s embrace, letting her wife’s arms encircle both of them. Her family, ice and sweet, now back in the kitchen to simply be together again. She was content… and then the front door opened.

Apologetically smiling to (Y/N), she whispered.

“Sorry. We’re on the run. I forgot to mention it, and--”

“It’s okay, Ангел. I understand.” (Y/N) took Bart out of Natasha’s arms and twirled him around, beaming at him as Natasha protectively stepped in front of them.

How had she become so lucky?

“This is an agent of some kind.” A suspicious voice cut through the moment.

“Not anymore.” (Y/N) chuckled at his baffled expression and shifted her positioning with holding Bart. The rest of the Avengers filtered in and wore similarly surprised and confounded expressions, gazes flitting from the young boy to Natasha to the unknown woman. Clint was the only one who bore a smile, pushing past Steve's (large, muscled) frame to see the family.

“That is a… smaller agent.” Tony deflected, frowning and wincing when that disturbed his bruises and scratches. Y/N immediately noticed and set down Bart who happily ran over to Clint; she fetched a rag and quickly wet it, tending to Tony’s wounds with ease. She had noticeable practice being a medic.

Clint twinkled as soon as he saw Bart, reminded of his kids back at his still private home. He was, of course, Bart’s godfather-- and it seemed to be meant to be. When they’d adopted Bart, it was almost perfect: a nickname of Clint’s last name.

“Uncle Clint!” Bart babbled, sticking his hands into Clint’s hair and gabbing. Thor cooed at him.

“Gentlemen, this is (Y/N). My wife.” Natasha softly sighed as she saw her wife wetting another cloth for Steve, making sure each of them was well cared for, offering dinner when she saw the state of them.

Tony seemed quite befuddled.

“I thought… But you and Legolas!”

Natasha smirked and pressed a kiss to her wife’s cheek, handing Bruce a cup of water.

“Friends.” She watched in admiration as her wife flitted about, remembering their old days-- something she preferred to not often do-- when she would be met with the same sight. That would normally be in a battlefield, covered in blood, running and running and running; she was ever-so-grateful for the peace she and (Y/N) had now.

“If you guys’ appetites are anything like Nat’s, I’d better start on another batch of stew.” (Y/N) laughed, something Natasha had missed dearly. She could barely restrain herself now, wanting nothing more than to just relax in (Y/N)’s arms, but there were duties she had to finish first.

Bart was still happily squirming in Clint’s chest, tugging on Thor’s hair with obsession. He could never stay away from shiny things, especially golden and silky; the God seemed pleased with this. He was very fond of children.

“If you wouldn’t mind.” Steve lightly laughed and blushed, feeling almost too tall for the bijou cottage.

“‘Course not. Make yourselves at home.”

//

“And then this little monster,” Natasha tickled Bart, making him giggle and drop his spoonful of mashed potatoes, “Drew all over his bedroom walls, dozens of arrows and purple faces. I couldn’t believe it!”

“He has a visionary imagination! I had to go beyond the normal bedtime tales!”

“Yeah, instead detailing your last mission.” (Y/N) snorted in laughter and wiped a napkin over Bart’s mouth.

“Little man needs a little action in his life! Isn’t that right, Bart?” Clint fussed over him, earning a look from Tony. It seemed every tough Avenger had some sweet spot for children now.

A tranquil hum of chatter continued, making their way through a delicious round of food, and a light settled upon the Avengers; Ultron was momentarily forgotten. It was nice to see such happiness precede their dark thoughts, even if for only an hour. Clint made a couple jokes about retirement-- which Natasha glared at him for but inwardly grinned-- and Tony was still as snarky as ever, but the group came together for a bit. It was peaceful and golden-light-bathed, something Natasha hadn’t expected from the heroes. It seemed like a true home that night, even if she still couldn’t wait to be alone with (Y/N).

By nightfall, Bart was settled into bed and most of the team had either fallen asleep from fatigue or gathered around the television. (Y/N) was reading a book on the couch, content with the day. Natasha smiled and hugged her from behind, ingraining her mind with each detail of (Y/N)’s voice lilt, the exact shade of hair, the curve of her thigh-- she was perfection.

“I will always love you, darling,” Natasha mumbled, tucking her head into (Y/N)’s neck.

“And I you.”


	11. Genteel • Bucky Barnes x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by @Marshmalloween
> 
> 'Looks like there will be part2 ＼(^o^)／ btw can i request au bucky x reader when both going on a blind date that set by seteve (obviously haha) and the reader by natasha (or any avanger) and both find they were made for each other,   
> unbeknownst to them, reader actual date is not bucky and vice versa.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update! I'll try to be more consistent with the chapters!

“Nat, this… dress…” You frowned. “I don’t want to be rude, but can you find something less slim-fit drop-dead bod casual like you? I don’t think I can-- I…” Turning around in the mirror endlessly, you pinched and smoothed the thin blue dress/suit with the vision of a critic, popping your wedges up-and-down to gauge the multiple-inched satin heels/loafers, trying to catch the light on your-- her-- jewels/watch with every twist. It was quite a lovely outfit, selected for you by Natasha from her own beautiful closet, meant to give you an edge on whatever ‘strapping’ man she’d set you up with for tonight; based on previous blind dates you’d been on, you weren’t expecting much, but you had enough faith in Natasha to go along with her wishes. She was rarely wrong, except maybe overestimating the confidence you had to wear this dress/suit.

She met your reflection in the mirror and ran her hand along your collar, rolling out all the wrinkles you’d caused.

“You look stunning.”

“Thank you.” You smiled and fluffed a bit of your hair into a loose curl. “All clear for takeoff?”

Natasha laughed, almost snake-like, and slithered an arm around your shoulders, steering you away from the oval mirror and to her vanity filled to the absolute brim with cosmetics and products meant to enhance her beauty. To you, it seemed a bit daunting. She pulled out the white, fur-trimmed chair for you as she plugged in a curler and neatly laid out an array of palettes and tubes. Half of the stuff you weren’t able to even name.

“Not a chance. I’m going to make you sparkle.” She approached you with a powder brush and everything was covered in light pink and smokey grey for the next hour, stippling and swiping until she was completely satisfied with her mannequin. She brushed out your hair, curling it to the side and spraying it with something that smelled like grapes, finishing off the style with a diamond barrette. Natasha stepped back and admired your reflection, grinning as she stood you up.

“Okay, you’re done. Go get him.”

//

The night kissed your upper-arms, enveloping you in a crisp near-cold that chilled you as the taxi drove away. It was a nice restaurant; there was a small garden of sweet-smelling flowers in the front, cracklings of an orange fire from within shining through the carved glass doors, frosted walkway dusted with strips of steel. You welcomed the atmosphere and brought upon the normal-young-millennial-out-for-a-date persona on, elegance and posterity, as you entered the palace of various smells-- though at this time mostly spirits-- and responded to the waiter that you were looking for someone. You didn’t quite know who.

The waiter nodded, sort of distracted with another customer, and allowed you to find your table. You circled around the place, noticing the beautiful, cascading waterfall in the middle, the dim lighting placed strategically in the corners, the sultry dark red curtains hiding away the kitchens, rounding the tables with a sinking feeling as each was already satisfied with occupants. He could just be a little late or maybe seated somewhere you didn’t check meticulously.

You circumvented the restaurant again, eyeing the bar a little more heavily this time, and began to tug on your lip as it remained the same. A drop, a small puddle of drought began to weigh down on your head, pushing you down into the ground as you slumped into a near booth with eyesight aligned to the doorway-- just in case. The puddle started to turn into a downpour, and you began tapping the cushioned seating, leaning your head on the wall behind you for comfort. This was Natasha’s contact-- if he didn’t come, she would be pissed, and that is a consequence no-one willingly faced. This is why you never agreed to blind dates; why waste time with unreliable people? Now you were alone, sitting in an esteemed dining area with flushed cheeks and a hand covering your eyes. Not exactly how the night was supposed to unfold.

The waiter finally came to you after several minutes, apologetically taking your order with a meager hope that your ‘suitor would show up’. Was that a company line?

Minutes continued to pass, and you tried to distract the increasing tightness in your chest with your phone, filing your fingernails, and the menu: how many times could they use the adjective ‘delicious’? Your count was currently twenty-seven, but you may have missed one.

By the time your drink came, you were extremely close to just leaving. What was the point of staying just to be disappointed? You were out of place among all the fulfilled tables, happy people on dates without the worries of being abandoned. It was if as you were a cloud, sinking with precipitation, slowly gravitating towards the bar for some more anchoring to finish the job. Some brandy would do you good, maybe enough so your drive home wouldn’t be covered in black streaks of makeup; you ambled over to the counter.

At the far left of the dim bar was a tall, pensive brunette man that had his face obscured by a glass of whiskey and the rest of him covered by the couple laughing over a never-ending round of shots. A few other patrons scattered in and out the few bar seats; you settled in the middle, waving for the bartender and ordering your signature item. A little strong, but you didn’t particularly care tonight.

The mysterious man glanced at you a couple of times throughout your next few orders, always positioning himself just so that you couldn’t quite see his face, stealing the bartender from you every other minute for a new mix. It felt almost familiar to be adjacent to him but also far away; did you know him? Was he your blind date? Natasha could have set you up with someone from work… maybe you had seen him at S.H.I.E.L.D. or around the facilities.

His eyes caught yours for a second, and you gave up on your solitude in a flash. Fuck it.

“Are you here for a blind date?” By any chance at all, you hoped your efforts weren’t about to be rejected… especially when you saw his face. Damn Bucky and his beautiful baby gray eyes and scruffy, barely-kept beard that had you itching to smooth your hand over.

He wasn’t a stranger, not quite-- you both were on the Avengers team, but you were quite certain the most you’d said to him was ‘bless you’ after he’d sneezed (which had earned you a glare and the lack of his presence near you for some time). Your space from him was not born out of spite or hatred, rather respect for his past and wishes for him to grow accustomed to life here. You saw how Steve pressured him to become the 40s ladies’ man he used to be, how the rest of the team sat on edge waiting for him to make a mistake and relapse into the feared Winter Soldier. Sometimes, when his jaw ticked tight enough, you were among them; however, he was human just as you were. Quite a handsome human, too. Based on the small snippets of conversation you’d caught between him and Steve, he was a very likable man-- when he didn’t get in his head too much. He wasn’t who you would expect to be paired with, more likely to just be here to forget some memories that were too prevalent. As far as you had surmised, he wasn’t on the dating scene yet.

However, based on his widened eyes, your assumption could be incorrect. Maybe he was here for you… and you for him?

“Mm-- uh, yeah, doll. A blind date. And you?” He maneuvered his body so he was more open towards you, perfectly showcasing his striped gray tie and dark blue dress shirt. Which, of course, meant you two were matching. That made you flush a bit and stumble closer to hi,/

“Well, not so blind anymore.” You winked and took a seat next to him carefully (no sudden movements, you were flirting with him rather than injury).

Bucky stuttered and nodded, blushing, cool-guy persona fading to his normal demeanor-- the one that he only showed around people he trusted. It was warming to see him accept your presence, sink into the atmosphere that was enveloping you; it was nowhere near love-at-first-sight propaganda, but you-- and you thought you both-- could see the potential for something more. Glimpses of you holding his hand in meadows of poppies, stroking his hair while he slept peacefully, curling up against his metal arm and reassuring him everything would be alright. There was a life with him, a gentleman that was still discovering his past; not like a lost puppy or a pity vagrant, but a man with an unfortunate affair with the deadly, the torturous, the cruel, and the HYDRA. Someone who wasn’t fully able to give his all, but not someone who would steal you away with shallow promises and no real hopes for the future. A relationship made of reliance and equal-assistance instead of constant cuddles and trite utterings of a facile obsession.

You didn’t want to change him; sitting there, looking gallant in his suit, smiling in a half-way that attempted to remember how it used to quirk up-- he was already beautiful. Not perfect: beautiful. Handsome. Deserving of love, so much more than he had, worthy of your hand and even more than that.

Bucky was not your love. You didn’t have a crush on him, nor an admiration that drove you wild until you finally kissed him. That would scare him away, and you were content with the fact that you didn’t have to restrict yourself from indulging in fantasies like that. The quiet bar and silky smell of champagne and basil was enough for the both of you.

Could you make a night with him? One that led to another one, and a week, and an undisclosed amount of happiness that would last as long as you let it?

Always on the run, fighting, training for your next fight; you both were commendable of a relationship that wasn’t born of superiority or past affiliations. It was time, you knew, to start again. Throw away your assumptions and suppositions of his ‘other life’ and appreciate the chance you were given: if not for a blind date, this would not be possible.

“Quite the unexpected surprise, but I can’t deny an eve with a mighty fine siren such as yourself. Steve might’ve been right about…” He gestured to his gelled hair. “This. Another chance, more like how I used… to be.”

“Bygones are not here anymore. Buck,” You tested your allowance for nicknames, “You aren’t the same. Obviously. Shit happened and no one expects you to pretend otherwise. Sure, you were a heartbreaker before, but…” You shrugged. “This is now. Damn, I can’t really tell you what you are or your current level of finessing the hearts of the world, but there’s no bar you gotta achieve. Right now’s just us, this bar, two shots of tequila… Thanks.”

Nodding to the mixer, you accepted the two shot glasses and slid one to Bucky. He looked as if he was still deciding on his next response, lapping up your observations slowly with a dedication to scrutiny. It wasn’t a light subject-- not typical first-date talk-- but you felt it necessary to move forward. If he was attempting to relate to you with falsities in his brain, and fallacious expectations in yours, nothing would be produced other than splintering.

Bucky picked up the glass with adroitness, inclining his head for you to do the same; you both gulped down the liquor and shook it off, feeling the tingles of adrenaline slide down your throat and to your heart that was beating quicker than normal. Was this normal? No, certainly not. You and Bucky on a date. At a place. And you had, probably, maybe, a few drinks, a couple too many… wow.

“And you wouldn’t be opposed to this? A date?” His contact didn’t leave yours.

“I certainly couldn’t deny an eve with-- okay, okay!” You chuckled. “Of course not. Honestly, I’d looooooove to get to know you.”

The effects of the alcohol weren’t stopping just so you could open up to the hunky super soldier. Instead, your emotions were being multiplied, abundant attraction turned into something that had you squirming through scores and scores of flirting lines, eye-batting, and more than a couple ‘innocent’ arm squeezes. Bucky held his liquor much better than you did-- his serum did at least give him that-- and ended up holding you up when the clock began to reach the top again.

From what you could actually remember, that was the best date you’d been on in a long time. Maybe ever, if Bucky had actually carried you to bed like a gentleman after you couldn’t even stay standing in the elevator.

But that was a blur; now, several hours and a couple Advils later, you were groaning while slipping on decent-looking but comfortable sweatpants and a cotton tee, leaving your hair in the half-up-slept-on style it had chosen to take. There was a lot to think about, many memories to sort through, and fashion wasn’t high up on your list, although you did put in a little extra effort for a special someone. Now there was a person in the building that gave you motivation to wear something other than wrinkled pajama bottoms to breakfast.

Quietly shuffling to the kitchen to not disturb your aching mind, you bumped into Natasha-- she also was sneaking along the walls, though not for the same reasons.

“Nat. Oh God.”

“(Y/N).” She smirked. “You look like an absolute wreck, you minx.”

You frowned and tugged on your tee as you stepped back a bit.

“Thanks, Nat.”

“Don’t. You know I mean well; the date clearly worked in your favor. Just promise me a big slice of the cake, alright?”

Snatching the protein bar out of her hands and pointedly ignoring her glare, you shook your head vehemently.

“Don’t quite think that’s in the plans. Yet, or whatever-- and I didn’t think you even liked him. A surprise, good, but-- Wow. I actually have to work with him. You know? How am I going to stop myself from drooling? Not like I was… looking at his abs… anyway, it went better than I thought. A lot better. My hangover isn’t as bad when I can remember something other than all the guys hitting on you and me alone in the corner booth.”

Natasha quirked a brow at you in disbelief, pulling one hip out farther than the other to flawlessly display her incredulity. She couldn’t seriously be upset about the bar; did she think you were insulting her choice of a coworker? With Natasha, you could never be sure about her feelings, but she didn’t seem fully annoyed. Maybe just confused.

“I highly doubted that would be a problem; I would never intentionally pair you with someone that would distract you from work even an ounce.” Natasha was dripping with sarcasm and fake sincerity, looking down at you through her black lashes as she poked a bit of fun at you. “As a SHIELD agent, you would hardly even see him… Unless there is something you’re not telling me?” Natasha started to smirk but your frown impeded that; a SHIELD agent? That didn’t seem like the type of evasive wool to create a joke with.

“I don’t really, uh, understand what you’re getting at, Nat.”

“Setting you up with a suitor.”

“No-- the SHIELD whatever. He’s not a part of that, unless you, uh, divulged secret information, but I don’t think anyone could really have time to be an Avenger and an agent; maybe you-- I guess, but that’s still a lot, and I don’t think you mixed up his job, but that’s not… right-- you know?”

You finished chewing the bar and crinkled up the wrapper in every manner but neat as your counterpart scrunched her nose in obvious confusion and walked back into the kitchen, hips swaying. Following her dutifully, you disposed of the covering and glided onto one of the high chairs. Natasha stood opposite you, reaching into the drawers for utensils.

“Honey, who exactly did you spend your night with?” Her brows were becoming less furrowed with each slice she cut on the apple, slowly figuring out the conundrum you had presented.

“Bucky… James. Right?”

For at least a solid three seconds, her body became rigid. Absolutely still, devoid of motion and reaction, but then erupted right into a barrage of laughter; her stomach shook so vigorously, she had to release the knife and clutch it to ground herself.

That was a highly unexpected response.

You were not impressed, perching on your seat with distaste and attempting to get an explanation out of her humored head. She was acting as if this was a joke.

“Steve! Oh, my-- Perfect. Absolutely great-- If he was--” She hiccuped. “Here, that-- Steve! Ha!”

“Yes?”

“These two little love doves completely demolished our plans and somehow managed to find each other! These two warriors! Could. Not. Simply. Find their real dates-- No, (Y/N), Bucky was not your real blind date, but maybe this is fate. Damn. Who are we to mess with that, right?”

Poor Steve was still frozen, hair curling against his forehead in a wave of innocent distress, softly swirling as he unscrambled the situation just a little slower than you.

“You… two?”

You sheepishly grinned and nodded, thinking back to Bucky’s shadowed face in the dark night clouding, his genteel courtship towards you. There was no way you could even consider denying it nor your attraction to him.

“Yes.”


	12. The Past Changes Pt. 2 • Bucky Barnes x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by @StoryTellerMage (on Chapter 3)
> 
>  
> 
> ‘more please this is so cute and it would be so cool to see how he helps someone out of his old situation.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // unreliable narrator //
> 
> please keep that in mind.
> 
> it's a little messy and clipped and apathetic, but that's the point as well? it's very confusing, so sorry, but also not sorry? i've tried to clean it up a bit while still maintaining the character's personality because I try to incorporate that into my writing style of each chapter.

Fighting was not all aggressive; it could be graceful, well-timed, a leopard punch sprung out of pure, carnal desire for competition. The conditions for learning and practicing fighting are too judgmental, scared of the truth that lays beyond ‘self-defense’. Your hands were the pillars of justice, trained and trained for savage fights that never seemed to end in your metal cage; opponents always appeared just as the surface of the blood scabbed. The conditions that brought you strength weren’t peaceful, not borne by hobbyistic or fickle ambitions. They were midnight strikes, tiger claws and crescent strikes, stumbling around for days on end with the propane of powdery ‘energy bolsters’ and fear of the other side of the ring. Any door not leading to your cot was a place you would rather cut off inflow of air than enter, so your days not spread on tables or passed in ways you couldn’t see were spent in a ring of hatred. A marriage to the angle, kick, pull mantra that was the buzzing ceremony music, soft violin of invisible tasers, spotlights just on you for the watching crowd (cameras) and flower petals (merlot stains not yet removed) beneath your every step. Each calculated, weary step that was always too much for the body to handle.

Falls were not signs of sleep deprivation. The adversaries were not contenders for your worth; look them exactly in the eyes and deliver the final punch. Straight into the sockets of their last glimpse of color. The weak are always among us, монстр. Another hit. He is unconscious. Punishment for failure. Will you disappoint us?

Of course, you would not, so as patchy purple hues crept along your periphery, sinking into your veins, making your feet trip just an inch over the dilapidated mat as cold, hard lead filled the holes in your bones, you gazed passively at the last slips of white in his eyes hide behind discolored lids. There was no passing of the spirit, auspicious moment that caught your attention; he merely slumped and gradually slipped away from reality. His hand stopped twitching. Shirt sagged against his still chest. And then he was gone. Hail.

Losing was a privilege you had to earn the right of. No one simply lost-- they would perish with the short span of what they were given, taken before any taints could be marked upon the fighters. Misplacing your worth and receiving survival was a reward, something given to the highest ranking combatants, recognized by scars stead metals. Buzzed cuts. Inky, gray swirls around the pupil. Lines of dark-carmine stretching from the collarbone to the sternum.

You could remember quarreling Bucky once (though you were sure there were numerous occasions, none too friendly) and having a small doubt in your mind-- just a nag in your insides, pressing down stiff enough to cause a moment of apprehension. Faltering dubiety towards your next action; he was your foe. A rival of your gains that kept you alive each day, yet he was familiar in a way that seemed to crush your liver, prod your bones out of your skin gently but consistently.

Then he was pushed into the humid ring, metal-arm hid behind him as if stitched in with a stigma, and hobbled towards you with a soft circle of relief above him that caught the light in the room oddly. He was too bright, looking right at you as if he was searching for a pipe dream on your stolen body, searching in your eyes, beginning to offer a small, hesitant smile when he was suddenly down on the mat. Spinning hook kick.

Small, traveling drops of a thick, red substance began traveling down his face, drawing an uneven path of maps that led down to his neck, starting to color his white shirt. At this, he seemed surprised.

“(Y/N)? Please, no. I don’t want to do this with you.” He struggled standing up.

Knee strike.

“Snap. Out of it! Don’t--” Axe kick. “--Gh! I won’t hurt you. I can’t--”

Overhand punch.

On you.

//

Block; punch; move left, aim; roundhouse kick: blocked. Try again, faster, harder, better. Walk; kick; dodge; kick. Again. Again.

Maim, kill, destroy.

This was your reputation, this was your plain mission, and be damned if you had the willpower to think past strategy and precalculations of your opponent’s next move. Nothing was for your future, no hopes and gritted teeth in faith of your next morning, simply there to fight and block and: flying back kick. Dodged.

Your contender was well-trained, nimble, only managing to take a couple jaw hits. Panting, mouthing something, looking more scared than they should. It may be a quick fight.

The buzzing was back. Pleas, reprimands, begging. Weakness.

Cornering the combatant, you went for the final move: chokehold. Lifted them up, grasped their neck with one hand, watched as their eyes began to droop, straight into the middle of the irises without judgment. Too easy. They struggled, clasped your arms and attempted to kick back, failing each round and losing quicker each time. The oxygen was fading.

Yet there were voices not coming from either of you.

Your name.

Your other name.

“It’s me! It’s me, (Y/N)!” You gripped the opponent tighter and clenched your other fist tightly. There should only be a few more seconds of struggle. Then the voices would go.

“Bucky-- you- your friend, with you always! Until the end of the line!” The voice was desperate. A rough hand began to shake your shoulder, pulling you away from the other agent.

“Stop it. Just let her go, go back to your normal self, doll. Darling. No one wants to see ya get hurt here.”

Red curls bounced. Slower.

“My mission.” Raspy.

“No mission. No HYDRA.” The voice had a face, and it appeared in your vision hesitantly, pleading and still struggling against your strength.

“Izmennik.”

“You. Are. Free. Let Natasha go-- she’s your friend. We just want you back. I don’t-- I--”

Your face twitched, mouth curling.

“Damn it!” The voice-face growled and was suddenly nearer to yours, striking down your arm and tackling you to the ground. The other person was dropped.

“Snap out.”

He pinned your arms down, his metal one catching the light.

“Traitor. You are sabotaging the operation.” His face hardened and softened at the same time, grunting as he used his full weight to keep you down. “I will kill you.”

A blonde appeared in your vision with a syringe, offering you pitying eyes as he asked something to the brunette. They were comrades. You would report this to HYDRA.

“No-- Just--” The brunette responded, shaking his head. You took this moment to grab the knife you had hidden in your waistband and angle it. This place was familiar but you knew one thing: it was full of enemies. People that jeopardized your existence.

The brunette scowled and turned his eyes back to you fully, seeing the knife a moment too late.

You attacked, then everything was melting and fading as the ceiling collapsed and the dirt covered your face, covered his, and smothered everything in ash.

//

“Shestnadtsat.”

A sigh from the left.

“Otets.”

There was shuffling, heavy boots drawing near you; you were lying on a table. Thin sheets by the feel. You couldn’t open your eyes, but the grinding sound of irregular beeps and cold, undisturbed air in the room was enough to make assumptions. Base.

“Instruktsii.” A slight tremor whipped your hair to the side, either because of someone's hand or the trigger word, you didn’t know.

“(Y/N), that’s not going to work.”

“Istrebitel.” You spit at the voice that brought a disrupt of the peace you were veiling your mind in, trying your best to ignore the sadness that lied within his words.

“Tsvetok.” A few needles danced on the palms of your foot as your face began to relax and let the waves wash over you.

“Why go back? Why make yourself-- (Y/N), please. Doll.” A rough hand gently caressed your cheek and you restrained yourself from biting at it. You had to focus on the words.

“Vremya.”

You heard a grunt, then a scream-- your own, muffled against his hand. His body smothered yours, twisting around and keeping your lips pressed shut as he tried to cover your flailing legs with his. Body movement was slowly diminishing, washing away with the last bits of the tide, leaving only your eyes and ears subject to his futile appeals.

Bucky scrunched his nose up, studying your face closely. He apparently was satisfied after a moment and began to talk, an apologetic note in his attitude.

“I knew this would happen eventually. I’m so sorry-- Darling, I-- I’m sorry. Really, I shouldn’t have made you fight Natasha. You weren’t ready; it’s my fault. I just want to see you-- see you safe.” He swallowed thickly when you attempted to sink your teeth in his hand, switching it off to the metal one effortlessly. It seemed more melancholic than angering.

“There’s a lot going on, I know. So many things to change, to remove to make your life what you deserve again. I just-- I want HYDRA to leave you!” He was more vicious. “No more trigger words, fights for your own sanity, I can’t. You should be living the life you always dreamed, not stuck here with me and some doctors… But, Doll, just a little bit longer. Promise. Wakanda is slowly sharing its tech-- they’re much more advanced than we thought-- and I think we can get you better, we can stop these lasting effects of those… monsters. Don’t give into the dark.”

He softly kissed the top stroke of your forehead, and you took that moment of vulnerability to flip him over.

“Fuck you, Barnes. Traitor.” You shook, head spinning rapidly and legs trembling against his torso as the bed seemed to toss, plastic wires ripping out of your limbs and falling to the ground ungracefully. He seemed strangely calm, only chewing his lip in disappointment; he was in another life. “Gonna have to tape my mouth shut, or I guess I’ll-- I’ll fuckin’... ugh-- Barn--!”

The bed was flipped. Sheets streamed down towards you slowly, white filtering through the edges of your vision until it all took over and the cold of Winter Russia was back, snowflakes too fine to grace your bodice; they dotted along the sides, whispers and silhouettes of pledges; Bucky was just someone you knew. Someone gone, just as you were.

//

You couldn’t breathe; the light air-- yellow and pink air-- surrounded you and drew all your wonder out. This was it. Perfection handed to you in a glass, the acme of your stress all boiled down to a sugar that floated around you; what could you have to be afraid of anymore? HYDRA was gone, you could finally exist again, and you had the best man in the world at your side, now forever.

A white strip of velvet laid down for you to walk on; rows and rows of guests, family, and friends smiling and laughing; elongated green vines of pastel flowers and golden blossoms affixed to the arches of the room; and Bucky. Beautiful, dashing Bucky standing at attention in just as much stupor as you, smiling at you with dopey eyes as you did the same. It was almost official, and for every step you took behind the flower girl-- Bucky’s great-niece-- you thanked the world for every blessing you had been given. Freedom from your past, Bucky, a job where you get to help those in need, loving friends, Bucky, the destruction of HYDRA, aid from Wakanda, Bucky. Always Bucky; he helped you achieve everything you had now.

It wasn’t fall-in-love-immediately; you were dangerous. You still didn’t know how the hell he put up with your constant threats and flashbacks, all the fuckery you put the team through, but he was never away from you. Bucky helped you through your incessant flashbacks, kept you close when you couldn’t bear to look outside, offered you a hand when he could’ve asked for so much more. The years kept passing, and eventually, you went back into the field (you couldn’t just sit in the tower anymore and not make up your wrongs) with him. It was a dangerous profession that was accompanied by only deadly risks, but you knew it was what you had to do; the bodies burned into your mind of those by your hand were too much to forget. Bucky insisted it wasn’t your fault, but he always respected your decision.

Several years passed before you officially ‘dated’, but you knew from the first date he wouldn’t leave you. Ever. Bucky knew that too, and nothing seemed to bother you afterwards; he was your love, the man that would protect you, and you him.

You, the ex-HYDRA machine, would take a bullet for him anyday, and that irony… It led you here.

Bucky couldn’t stop grinning, chuckling with tears in his eyes as Steve began quietly crying off to the side at the sight of his best friend finally getting his best girl. If anyone was going to get a happy ending, no one would have guessed Bucky, but damn did he deserve it. You knew you would spend your days making him believe that he was worthy of your love and the nation’s, and that he was not what he saw in the mirror every morning. He was so much more, and about to be your husband.

“Buck…”

His smile quivered, almost beginning to cry, and you nestled him into your chest tightly with soft murmurs, stroking his shoulder gently. This was almost too happy of a moment for you two, but certainly not in a bad way.

“It’s alright, baby, I love you.”

“Mm lu you too.” He mumbled against your neck, slowly backing up to see your face and beaming even brighter. You straightened his tux jacket and met Natasha’s happy, hawk-like gaze in the bridesmaid row. The moment was almost a dream, like a Disney film, your life renewed and sparkled-- where was your Fairy Godmother now? If only you needed one.

Bucky nodded to the wedding officiant, never looking away from you, and you stared at the curves and coloring of his face as the speech was given. The words didn’t matter; you had gone through literal torture for each other, and you couldn’t imagine doing it differently. In sickness and health and fights and love, you would always be holding his hand.

“I vow…” His voice cracked, and he chuckled, “To never leave you, Doll. You are the prettiest thing I’ve ever had the honor of setting my eyes on. I have to catch my breath to believe this is real, that I am marrying my true love, my heart's desire, and my best friend. This has never been easy, and I think we both knew it would take a lot of work and dedication to blossom into a life together, but we achieved it, darling. God, through all the hardships we went through, an’ I can’t seem to regret any of my life if it’s led me into your caring hands. It’ll still be rough, doll, we’re two beaten people, but we can help each other through it. Always. We’re about to be together forever now, and I-- and I will never leave you. I vow to that, and to always cherish you, and listen when you need me; no words can possibly-- can possibly, can even express the vow that I give to you now-- it’s an ineffable part of myself that I place in your care as we join together. I love you, (Y/N) (L/N) Barnes. I really…” Bucky swallowed with tears, stroking your cheek. “I love you.”

And then you opened your mouth, and the bees came, and lifted you up; the velvet walkway was streaks of blood, the flowers were opening and opening and opening--

Bucky’s metal arm took yours, squeezed, and the glints of your promise rings weren’t a grandiose, lustrous shine. They were metal.

You screamed. And screamed. And the sky fell, and the clouds settled in the billows of your dress, and you clutched at your eyes before it all defrosted into warm liquid.

//

“Rough night.”

You couldn’t talk.

“An’, no, I ain’t speaking to just myself.” There was much sadness in his voice; you stared at the peeling ceiling, imagining the flakes raining down on you like soot. Anything at all, any movement that would comfort you. The man shifted but didn’t appear in your vision.

“‘Can’t come in too much, but looked like one hell o’fa dream. Nightmare, if you rather. I…” He sighed. “I’m sorry. Really. This shit you have’ta go through now: a goddamn muzzle. But you can’t sabotage yourself again-- I hope you can at least see that in the future. I can’t imagine a worse pain than becoming… I’d never be him again. Willingly or other, I don’t-- They’re not letting you out soon. Dangerous.”

You screamed, but couldn’t hear it.

“Dangerous to yourself.”

Ripping against the restraints, kicking your feet up, putting every bit of your strained voice into the quiet, buzzing room; nothing happened. The wall flakes stared down at you.

“And… others.”

Okay: think. There’s almost certainly an IV post next to the bed; unlikely to be loose medical tools, but if you could escape the bed, tearing a drawer down wouldn’t be difficult; there’s a window to your side, likely bulletproof. A camera by the door if you could remember correctly-- last time you had looked, there was fire to accompany it.

You had a maximum of five seconds before security was called, and that didn’t account for the poignant Winter Soldier watching you.

“...Remember the first few months you were here? Well, really the couple after that-- I dunno. Thought I could help, maybe make you feel things you never allow yourself ta’ know well, bring back those good ol’ days. I was just wishing. And, sweetheart, I thought I was doing somethin’ good for ya, helping create some sort of relationship between us-- ya never told me to stop. It’s on me, I-- I thought there was something I could do.”

He was about seven feet away. Sitting. His chair was not bolted to the ground, so it could very well be his weapon of choice. Note: duck, then attack.

“If there was a way I could help, doll, I’ve tried! I’ve kept by you, I’ve held you when you needed a space to wallow, cried along with you-- damn, I ain’t free of the demons either, baby. I wanted to be with you ‘till the end of the line, an’ I still do. ‘Course. But this ain’t your show-down, an’ I can’t… smothering you. Can’t keep suffocating you. If my presence makes you end up here…”

You had to remember your unreliable limbs; they have not been in use for a while. At least a day. Move them around as best you could against your chains to warm them up…

“...Mm. No. I don’t want to be the death of you, or me.”

And the arms as well. Overtaking his metal one would be tough, but you knew it was possible. By physical or mental efforts. Your major advantage over him was his emotional troughs, the lines that creased his face as he looked at you, his clenched fist when you had trouble even glancing at a mirror. His soft smiles when you let him stroke your hair. The rough, brute side of him when Sam took the last of your favorite cereal. Affection was his weakness.

“But, doll, I don’t have a clue what to do from here. Fuckin’ pass ya over to SHIELD like a… like a deserter? They won’t give ya what ya need, not a bit, just half-assed therapy and illegal tricks snuck away from the public’s eye. No one knows what shit goes on there, and you don’t deserve that. I can’t let ya be traded over, and if I can’t be by ya, how’m I s’posed to protect ya? Even just talking is makin’ me sound like a Brooklyn boy all over ‘gain, not knowing what ta’ do with my life. There’s all these alleyways, streets offered, and all got somethin’ wrong with ‘em. But you are the only choice I got.”

Yes. Slight tremor in his voice, precarious cadence: he would be crying soon. Exemplary opportunity to strike. He would be occupied, even more upset when he saw you move-- the average human may deem it as an illusion out of their own mind.

Bucky was not average.

“An’ I know I’ve told you about Wakanda before. Beautiful, from what I’ve seen, a world away from our own, elaborate. Sort of like a secret garden. I’m working on seeing T’Challa-- we aren’t on the best’a terms, but I think there’s a possibility there. Some kind of future. I spent a bit in cryo, and… it might be for the best. Just waiting. Neither of us should really be here, or out in the open, or… Well, it’s a hard choice, and, doll, I wish I could hear your snarky comment right now, some kind of consolation to my aching heart. Confirmation on your thoughts about this; it’s not easy deciding to ice someone away for who knows how long. We’re old ‘nough as is, and to wake up in another century wouldn’t do well for us, maybe it would-- Though T’Challa and Shuri wouldn’t let that happen.”

He was not crying. Unfortunate. You couldn’t see another viable distraction that would present itself, so you would have to create one. Noise wouldn’t work, but a substance would. Tears of your own.

“An’ Shuri! An angel, darling, too smart for her own good. She helped me with my arm, talked to me while I stayed there for a bit while out of cryo, the brains behind so many operations. I feel that you might like her, your cynicism and her playfulness. ‘Should see about that, I suppose, maybe take my leave. Can never tell what you’re thinking, doll. If I could just…”

And then his head appeared: worn, hair matted, face dry, but still jovial at the sight of you.

Then he saw the water running along your cheeks.

“Oh, baby, baby, no. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I… Please, don’t cry. It’ll be alright, we can make this better. I’ll-”

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckmovepleasemove

dead.

//

A scientist snuck you up on the roof, a thin skeleton of lab coats and Cheeto-fingers, smiling at your compliant movements. He held a wicker basket, too heavy to hold just sandwiches, criss-cross of fine beige lattice, guiding you along a hallway more bright than the part of the facility you resided in; you walked and walked and walked. The HYDRA corridors ended at a door of steel, promptly propped open by his bony leg, ushering you through quickly. Wind greeted you.

There were breezes around you: a warm one on your neck, hand rubbing your shoulder, an itch crawling up your spine: snake-like, begging to be sated, but pushed down by the man’s grin. Your superior, your owner, HYDRA member…

“Doll, I hope you like sparkling cider. It’s quite hard to get it around here, so how about we keep it a secret, hmm?” His trimmed beard was scratchy against your hand as he kissed it briefly. “Just you and me and nature… I managed to get both grape and apple, so whichever you prefer, beautiful.”

You followed him to the edge of the roof, taking the cue to sit on the carpet rug he’d obviously prepared beforehand. You focused on the skyline behind him, the snowy trees and still sky, the lack of birds. Anything but him.

“Apple.”

“Great choice. You must be both beauty and brains, hmm? What a score.”

“Thank you.” For the flattery or full glass, you didn’t choose; the pines were quite intriguing. Keep looking at them. Don’t move.

“You know, you were actually scheduled for a mental check-up today. I was mixing the tubes just this morning, but I thought you’d like a nice time outside instead. Wouldn’t you? I didn’t tell that to Volkheimer, of course, but that’s quite a big risk on my part, hmm? So, doll, as you can see, I think it would be in your best interest--”

Sleep. Wake. Sleep:

//

Bucky.

Your hands felt for a material: a hand, a sheet, a pillow, a puff of dust. They scavenged around, north, south, every direction, above you-- they found nothing. No air. No gravity.

No body.

_It’s not your fault, Buck. This was never your problem._

Then, were you correct to call them hands? They were farther down than where you seemed to be thinking from, but that may not be a correct assumption. Were you thinking at all? With a brain?

_I thought you were dead. And you thought the same for me. Now, I’m not sure who is what. Shall my life be a broken clock, something only you can fix? Fix me, please._

It wasn’t a space for the ideals of time; you couldn’t sense night or day. You could’ve been there for eternity and still walk away clueless, still not subject to any quandaries you had solved, still wandering and meandering away from your purpose. And that was?

_My hands are broken. The hours and the minutes. The numbers are gone, Buck. I think time is up. I think it’s gone. Maybe I’m just waiting to be back in my physical vessel, lashing and screaming words that will make me feel everything-- nothing. Just the heartbeat of unity, what you’ve been after this whole time. That’s all I want._

Metal. Flesh. You felt for the connection between them-- none. No burned fission, nothing tethering you to a split of reality. Freedom… tasted like absolutely nothing.

_It’s not a choice for me. For you, yes-- and your choices are all about mine. Will you take away my decision and call it an alternative?_

Fingertips began to pad, strumming against the slowly ventilating oxygen.

_No…_

//

You were asleep, and then you were not.

Simple.

But when you rose up, blinking against the harsh lights, scrunching your nose and digging your heel against the ingot floor, pressing your palms against the cylindrical glass surrounding you, you didn’t reach for any hand. Just your own.

**Author's Note:**

> requests are open and comments are very appreciated <3


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